s^t  ^;  :•:  ;       '  J !  :  'jTl'?  iT^ 


:  1 

»^mna 

• '  !  .  •- 

■ 

M 

Puritan  and  Anglican: 


STUDIES  IN   LITERATURE 


BY 


EDWARD    DOWDEN 

LL.D.  (DUBLIN),  HON.  LL.D.  (EDINBURGH),   HON   D.C.I..  (OXFORD), 

HON.  LL.D.  (PRINCETON) 

PROFESSOR   OF    ENGLISH   LITERATURE    IN   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   DUBLIN 


SECOND    EDITION 


.v,^ 


NEW    YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

I  90  I 


'^ 


^\^ 


V 


^ 


PRINTED    liY 

TURNBULL   AND   SPEARS 

EDINBURGH 


E.  D.  D. 

"Truly,  for  mine  own  part,  if  I  were  as  tedious] as  a  king,  I 
could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  bestow  it  all  of  your  worship  ;  yea, 
an'  'twere  a  thousand  pound  more  than  'tis." 


9234S 


PKEFACE 

The  first  article  in  this  volume  is  reprinted  from 
The  Contemporary  Review ;  the  rest  of  the  volume 
has  been  hitherto  unpublished.  The  Puritan  writers 
with  whom  I  deal  are  such  as  to  render  the  title 
"  Puritan  and  Anglican "  not  inexact,  although  many 
of  the  Puritan  party  were  loyal  members  of  the 
Anglican  Communion. 

In  choosing  my  subjects  1  have  been  influenced  by 
two  things  ;  first,  I  have  spoken  only  of  writers  with 
whom  I  have  dwelt  long  and  intimately ;  and  secondly, 
among  such  writers  I  have  spoken  only  of  those  who 
move  me  to  speak  through  some  personal  interest 
which  I  feel  in  the  men  or  their  work.  Hence  without 
scruple  or  regret  I  omit  many  great  names,  being 
here  content  to   indulge  my  own  likings. 

I  have  desired  to  remain  close  to  my  subjects. 
In  many  passages,  for  example,  of  what  I  have  written 
on  Herbert  and  Vaughan,  it  is  Herbert  and  Vaughan 
who  are  in  fact  the  speakers  ;  but  I  did  not  think 
it  necessary  to  encumber  my  pages  with  a  crowd  of 
references  to  scattered  poems  from  which  their  thoughts 
and  phrases  have  been  collected. 


viii  Preface 

I  write  not  as  a  controversialist  but  as  a  student 
of  literature.  Literature,  however,  and  especially  what 
,  is  most  valuable  in  seventeenth-century  literature, 
,  /  cannot  be  studied  without  reference  to  the  history 
of  religion.  All  these  writers,  except  Hooker,  belong 
to  the  seventeenth  century ;  and  the  influence  of 
Hooker,  who  died  in  1600,  was  in  great  measure 
posthumous. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

Puritanism  and  English  Literature      .  .  .  1 

Sources  of  the  greatness  of  Elizabethan  literature — Decline  of 
the  drama — Art  and  politics — Was  the  work  of  the  Renaissance 
interrupted  ? — Separation  of  individual  religious  life  and  national 
life — The  Catholic  and  the  Puritan  religious  spirit — DiflBculty  in 
Puritanism  for  art — The  sensuous  medium — Baxter's  testimony 
— Dominant  idea  of  Puritanism — Its  cardinal  error— How  the 
invisible  is  embodied  by  Puritanism — Hebrew  literature  supplies 
an  imaginative  medium — Schoolmen  of  the  Pieformation — The 
fabric  of  doctrine — Morals  and  casuistry — The  Puritan  gentle- 
man— His  culture — Inwardness  balanced  by  public  duty — Body 
of  inspiring  ideas — Co-oiDcrancy  with  God — Hortatory  literature 
— Moral  restraint  and  art — Popular  sympathies. 

II. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne  .  .  .  .  .35 

His  unique  character  in  his  own  age — Connection  with  the 
scientific^  movement — Whitef oot's  reminiscences — Browne  in  his 
family — His  sons  Edward  and  Tom — "  Religio  Medici  " — Its  plan 
— Feeling  for  ceremony — His  heresies — His  mysticism — His 
view  of  nature — Final  causes — Providence — Angels  and  demons 
— Scale  of  being — Charity — Love  of  woman — Music — Wonder 
in  common  things — "  Christian  morals  " — "  Garden  of  Cyrus  " — 
"Letter  to  a  friend" — "  Hydriotaphia  " — Coleridge's  criticism 
— Concluding  section — Browne's  gift  to  his  age. 

III. 

Richard  Hooker      ......  Qd 

Belongs  to  both  Renaissance  and  Reformation — Walton's  art 
as  biographer — Hooker's  peaceable  spirit — His  conduct  of  con- 
troversy— ^Personal  traits — Marriage — Hooker  and  Travers — 
"Ecclesiastical  Polity,"  state  of  the  text — Historical  character 


Contents 


of  the  English  Church — Puritanism  dogmatic  and  not  historical 
— Hooker's  comprehensive  grasp  of  truth — The  Puritan  position 
and  that  of  Hooker— First  Book  of  '*  Ecclesiastical  Polity  "—The 
reign  of  law — Law  of  man's  nature — Human  society  under  law 
— Laws  regulating  supernatural  duties — Reason  and  revelation 
— Positive  laws  of  two  kinds — Which  are  permanent  and  which 
transitory — Hooker's  originality — Scripture  and  reason — Human 
authority — Conception  of  the  Church — Episcopacy — The  fifth 
Book — Tolerance  and  its  limits — Cautions  to  rash  reformers. 

IV. 
Anglo-Catholic  Poets  :  Herbert,  Vaughan       .  .  97 

Herbert  and  Keble— Crisis  in  Herbert's  life—"  The  Pilgrim  " 
— Desire  for  inward  coherence — How  to  obtain  this — Dignity 
and  poverty  of  man — The  age  of  wonder  renewed— God 
the  strategist — Humility  and  obedience  leading  to  peace — 
Fluctuations  of  feeling — Yet  a  link  in  God's  great  chain 
— Herbert's  pious  fantasies — His  love  of  beauty — Satisfied  by 
beauty  in  the  Anglican  Communion — Simplicity  and  severity 

—  The  Christian  Year — Prayer — The  poem  "Love" — The 
"Country  Parson" — Ideal  of  the  parson's  life — Herbert  and 
Vaughan  contrasted — Vaughan  an  illumine — His  love  of  light 

—  His  nostalgia  —  Vaughan  and  Wordsworth  —  His  "Rules 
and  Lessons" — Richard  Crashaw — The  mystic  of  flame— His 
infirmities  as  a  poet. 

V. 

Milton  :    Civil  Liberty      .  .  .  .  .133 

Liberty  and  obedience  the  sum  of  Milton's  writings — The 
transitory  and  the  abiding  elements  in  his  prose — Pamphlets 
on  divorce — The  central  proposition — Ideal  of  marriage — Con- 
troversial violence — Ends  of  marriage — For  labour  and  for  rest 
— Letter  on  education — Liberty  and  a  higher  rule  in  education 
— Its  religious  end  —  Uses  of  an  ideal  —  Intellectual,  moral, 
aesthetic,  physical  training — Ideal  of  the  Renaissance  on  a 
Christian  foundation— Freedom  in  publishing  opinions— Per- 
petual search  for  truth  the  law  of  liberty— Confidence  in  the 
nation  of  England— Sir  John  Seeley  on  Milton's  politico— 
' '  Ready  and  Easy  Way  to  establish  a  Free  Commonwealth  "— 
Centralisation  and  decentralisation— The  good  old  cause. 

VI. 
Milton  II. — Ecclesiastical  and  Theological  Liberty  : 

Poems  ......        1^ 

Need  of  discipline— True  and  false  glory  of  the  Church— A 


Contents  xi 


humility  that  soars — Material  splendoiu-s  in  religion— Proposal 
for  State-aided  pleasures — Eeligious  freedom — Hirelings  in  the 
Church — An  unordained  clerisy — Theological  liberty — Treatise 
on  Christian  Doctrine — Dogma  behind  the  poetry — Milton's 
materialism — Matter  honoured — Man  not  composed  of  soul  and 
body — What  death  means — Freedom  of  the  will — Doctrine  of 
the  Trinity — Obedience  the  central  idea  of  the  poems — "Comus" 
— "Paradise  Lost " — "  Paradise  Regained  "—Its  ideal  Hebraic — 
Active  obedience — "Samson  Agonistes." 

VII. 

An    Anglican    and    a    Puritan    Eirenicon — Jeremy 

Taylor  :  Baxter       .....        197 

Rust's  delineation  of  Taylor — Taylor's  zeal — Katharine  Philips 
— Taylor  on  friendship — His  bravura  passages — His  large  ordon- 
nance  in  composition — His  fervour — "  Lukewarmness  and  Zeal" 
— His  courageous  teaching — Dangers  of  zeal — "  Liberty  of 
Prophesying  " — "  Via  Intelligentiije  " — Temper  in  which  to  seek 
truth — Theology  "a  divine  life" — False  ways  of  peace — The 
true  way — Truth  implicit  in  goodness — Baxter's  autobiography 
— Efforts  towards  conciliation — His  scrupulosity — Bodily  in- 
firmities— Zeal  yet  detachment  from  party — The  preacher  of 
Kidderminster — His  writings — The  minister's  wife — His  breviate 
of  her  life — Changes  wrought  in  him  by  time  and  experience 
— His  best  Eirenicon. 

VIII. 

John  Bunyan  ......        232 

Bunyan  more  than  a  representative  of  Piu-itanism — Would  an 
Anglican  Bunyan  be  possible  ? — Personal  and  universal  elements 
in  his  writings — How  serviceable  for  modern  minds — "Grace 
Abounding  " — Realisation  of  the  unseen — Bunyan  and  public 
affairs — Accusation  of  otherworldliness — Uncertainty  of  his  re- 
lig'"U3  progress — Visions  and  locutions — Function  of  fear — A 
solitary — Macaulay  on  Bunyan — The  Bible  a  book  of  magic — 
Its  influence  on  his  imagination — His  spiritual  deliverance — 
Saving  good  sense — A  portrait  painter — Mr  Badman — Two  chief 
forms  of  allegory — "Holy  War  " — Origin  of  ' '  Pilgrim's  Progress  " 
— The  Second  Part — Need  of  vigilance—"  Piers  the  Plowman" 
— "The  Faerie  Queene" — Change  in  the  spirit  of  the  age — 
Robinson  Crusoe — The  epic  of  self-help — Tools  and  the  man — 
Growth  in  religious  tolerance. 


sy 


xii  Contents 

i-^.  PAGE 

Samuel  Butler        ......        279 

A  slinger  under  the  banner  of  good  sense — Gloom  beneath 
his  wit — Weakness  and  misery  of  man — The  understanding  his 
citadel — A  world  of  unreason — Unreason  of  enthusiasts — Un- 
reason of  sots — Unreason  of  science — Wit  and  the  understanding 
— "  Elephant  in  the  moon  " — Imperfection  and  abuse  of  human 
learning — Indictment  of  Puritanism — Butler's  verse — Compos- 
ing in  fragments — Heroic  and  mean  satire — "  Hudibras  " — Seri- 
ous yet  a  drollery — Characters  of  knight  and  squire — Unreason 
discursive  and  unreason  intuitive — The  incidents — Puritan 
sophistications — Duke  of  Buckingham  and  Butler — Influence 
of  Selden. 

X. 

Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century  .  .311 

A    time    for   provisional  arrangements  and  compromises — 
Halifax — Character  of  a  Trimmer — Spirit  of  the  Revolution —         ^ 
Religious  toleration — Locke — Essay  on  Human  Understanding 

—  The  scientific  movement  —  Macaulay's  theory  —  Scientific 
movement  a  European  phenomenon — Rationalising  of  theology 
— The  Church  and  Deism  —Robert  South — Honour  to  reason — 
His  criticism  of  Puritanism — Condemns  the  unreason  of 
voluptuaries — John  Eachard — Grounds  of  contempt  of  the 
clergy — False  learning — Strained  metaphors — Division  of  texts 

—  Tillotson  —  His  reasonable  piety  —  Addison's  ecclesiastical 
thermometer — Religion  in  the  eighteenth  century — Fielding's 
parsons — Mr  Booth's  conversion. 


PUEITANISM  AND  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


The  greatness  of  Elizabethan  literature  arose  from  the 
unity  of  the  national  mind,  in  which  the  streams  of  the 
Renaissance  and  the  Reformation  had  met  and  mincfled. 
The  enthusiasm  of  the  years  that  followed  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Spanish  Armada  fused  together  powers  which 
often  work  in  opposition  or  apart.  Reason,  passion,  and 
imagination  co-operated  one  with  another,  and  through 
their  co-operancy  gave  substance  and  form  to  the  poetry 
of  Shakespeare  and  of  Spenser,  to  the  prose  of  Bacon  and 
of  Hooker.  The  literature  of  pleasure  had  never  before 
attained  to  such  seriousness  in  beauty,  the  literature  of 
knowledge  had  never  before  been  so  infused  with  ima- 
ginative power.  In  such  works  as  "  Hamlet,"  "  Measure 
for  Measure,"  and  "  The  Tempest "  there  is  a  depth  of 
reflection  equal  to  their  heights  of  poetical  vision.  Spenser 
is  at  once  a  weaver  of  dreams  and  a  teacher  of  truth. 
Hooker  cannot  discuss  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  baptism 
or  the  rites  of  burial  until  he  has  first  expounded  his 
magnificent  conception  of  the  universe  under  a  reign  of 
law.  The  scientific  writings  of  Bacon — later  as  these 
are  in  date — are  the  utterances  of  a  great  imaginative 
seer  rather  than  of  a  fully  equipped  scientific  student. 
If  his  nature  was  lacking  in  passion  of  other  kinds,  he 
had  assuredly  an  unbounded  passion  for  universal  know- 

A  ^ 


2  •  Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

ledge,  and  for  the  power  to  enhance  the  worth  of  human 
life  which  knowledge  confers.  But  gradually  in  the 
history  of  our  literature  there  was  a  descent  from  the 
heights.  The  unity  of  the  national  mind  was  broken 
or  impaired.  Passion  in  large  measure  transferred  itself 
from  literature  to  the  affairs  of  politics  and  religion. 
Eeason,  confronted  with  urgent  practical  problems,  grew 
perplexed.  Imagination  waned,  and  often  yielded  to 
the  seductions  of  easy  and  vulgar  pleasure.  A  period 
of  doubt  and  difficulty  followed  a  period  of  steadfast  and 
daring  advance.  Two  doctrines  in  religion  arrayed  them- 
selves each  against  the  other.  Two  parties  in  the  State 
entered  upon  a  great  contention.  Two  theories  of  life 
and  conduct  stood  opposed.  All  things  tended  towards 
a  vast  disruption ;  and  in  the  strife  of  King  and  Com- 
monwealth, of  Puritan  and  of  Anglican,  that  disruption 
was  accomplished. 

The  chief  glory  of  Elizabethan  literature  was  the 
drama,  with  the  deepest  passion  and  the  most  heroic 
actions  of  humanity  for  its  theme.  It  had  its  basis  in 
what  is  most  real  in  the  life  of  man,  and  what  is  real 
was  interpreted  into  the  highest  meanings  by  imagina- 
tion. During  the  later  years  of  the  reign  of  James  I. 
and  during  the  reign  of  Charles  the  drama  lost  touch 
with  reality  ;  it  was  cut  off  from  its  true  basis  of  supply. 
It  advanced  with  a  showy  gallantry,  but  its  strength  and 
solidity  of  movement  were  gone.  It  relied  too  often,  as 
with  Massinger  and  Fletcher,  on  overstrained,  fantastic 
motives.  It  deserted  the  substantial  ground  of  national 
history.  It  endeavoured  to  excite  a  jaded  imagination 
with  extravagances  of  romantic  passion   or  even  of  un- 


PuritanisTH  and  English  Literattcre  3 

natural  lust.  It  sought  for  curiosities  of  prettiness  in 
sentiment  and  imagery.  It  supported  its  decline  by 
splendours  appealing  to  the  senses  ;  vast  sums  of  money 
were  expended  upon  the  masque.  It  grew  shallow  in 
true  passion  and  meditative  wisdom.  It  grew  rhetori- 
cal ;  its  moralities  are  often  those  of  eloquent  periods. 
And  if  at  times  less  rudely  gross  than  the  earlier  drama, 
it  was  infected  with  a  subtler  and  a  baser  spirit  of  evil. 
Nor  do  other  forms  of  poetry  compensate  the  decline  of 
the  drama.  While  much  in  the  Jacobean  and  Caroline 
lyric  poetry  is  admirable  in  its  kind,  a  charming  inter- 
mixture of  nature  with  art,  of  grace  with  gay  effrontery, 
it  does  not  often  deal  with  the  great  lyric  themes  in  a 
spirit  of  serious  beauty  ;  it  ceases  to  be  in  any  large  sense 
an  interpretation  of  life. 

To  us,  looking  back  upon  the  period,  the  literature 
of  pleasure  may  be  worth  far  more  than  its  theological 
treatises  or  its  political  pamphlets  :  grace  and  gaiety  are 
always  welcome  gifts,  fresh  and  living,  while  the  theo- 
logical and  political  controversy  of  the  seventeenth 
century  concerns  us  chiefly  as  a  matter  of  history.  The 
questions  so  fiercely  debated  then  are  not  the  questions 
which  concern  us  to-day,  or  at  least  they  require  for  our 
uses  to  be  re-stated  in  modern  terms.  But  to  a  man  of 
serious  mind,  living  in  the  years  which  preceded  the 
struggle  between  the  King  and  the  Parliament,  the 
poetry  of  the  time  would  have  appeared  as  no  more 
than  a  decorative  fringe  ;  the  warp  and  woof  of  thought 
would  have  been  found  by  him  in  those  folios  and 
quartos  on  which  the  dust  now  gathers  in  our  libraries. 
The  same  cannot  be  said  of  the  contemporaries  of  Shake- 


4  Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

speare  or  of  Spenser:  for  them  the  poetry  of  the 
time  was  a  large  and  true  interpretation  of  life.  And 
science  and  theology  were  then  a  genuine  portion  of 
literature. 

Was  there  a  check,  an  interruption,  of  the  higher 
intellectual  life  of  England  ?  Yes — to  a  certain  extent. 
The  Renaissance  influence  in  literature,  separated  from 
the  serious  temper  of  the  Reformation,  dwindled  and 
suffered  degradation ;  the  spirit  of  liberty,  entangled 
with  politics,  set  itself  to  resolve  urgent,  practical  pro- 
blems, and  lost  some  of  its  nobler  ideality.  Human 
freedom — that  indeed  was  still  sought ;  but  freedom 
came  to  mean  deliverance  from  an  unjust  tax  or  from 
an  inquisitorial  bishop.  The  spirit  of  the  Reformation 
separated  from  the  Renaissance  influence  lost  some  of 
its  more  liberal  temper  in  a  narrow  Scripturalism  and 
in  pettinesses  of  moral  rigour.  But  the  political  and 
religious  questions  could  not  be  put  aside  ;  they,  too, 
supplied  a  stern  discipline  for  the  intellect  ;  in  their 
solution  an  effort  was  made  on  behalf  of  liberty  of 
thought,  narrowed  in  its  meaning  though  liberty  of 
thought  might  be  by  the  exigencies  of  the  time.  The 
more  enli^jhtened  Puritanism  contained  within  it  a 
portion  of  the  spirit  of  the  Renaissance.  The  mun- 
dane spirit  of  the  Renaissance,  in  its  lower  form  of 
commercial  interests,  by  degrees  allied  itself  with 
Puritanism.  The  higher  tendencies  of  the  Renais- 
sance re-emerged  in  the  great  scientific  movement  of 
the  second  half  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Through 
the  strife  of  parties  and  the  tangle  of  interests  a  real 
progress  is  discernible. 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature  5 

Poetical  literature,  in  the  years  of  growing  trouble 
bad  in  some  degree,  as  bas  been  said,  lost  toucb  witb 
reality.  The  Cavalier  poets  produced  their  gallant  songs 
of  pleasure,  of  fancy,  of  delicate  melody ;  but  they  do 
not,  and  they  did  not,  sway  the  life  of  man.  Two 
things,  however,  became  more  real  and  gravely  earnest. 
One  of  these  concerned  the  corpQrate_life  of  the  jnation 
— the  great  contention  between  King  and  people.  The 
other  concerned  primarily  the  inner  life  of  _the  indi- 
vidual soul.  In  Elizabethan  literature  these  two  things 
had  not  fallen  apart.  Spenser's  ''  Faerie  Queene  "  deals 
essentially  with  the  life  of  the  soul  and  its  combat  with 
the  various  foes  and  tempters  which  beset  that  life ;  but 
it  is  also  a  poem  concerning  the  honour  and  well-being 
of  England.  It  is  a  moral  or  spiritual  allegory  ;  but  at 
the  same  time  it  is  an  historical  allegory.  Gloriana  is 
at  once  the  glory  of  God  and  the  Queen  of  England  ; 
St  George  is  at  once  the  knight  of  Holiness  and  the 
patron  saint  of  England.  Shakespeare  can  search  the 
mysteries  of  the  solitary  soul  in  Hamlet,  but  he  can 
also  celebrate  the  glories  of  his  country  at  Agincourt, 
and  raise  his  chant  of  patriotic  trmmph.  Such  poetry 
became  impossible  in  the  days  of  James  and  of  Charles. 
Men  who  were  interested  in  public  life  were  putting  on 
their  armour*  for  an  internecine  struggle.  Men  who  w^ere 
concerned  for  the  life  of  the  soul,  if  they  did  not  carry 
that  concern  into  the  public  strife  and  become  the  zealots 
of  a  party,  were  tempted  to  retreat  from  the  world  of 
action,  like  the  devout  company  at  Little  Gidding  or 
certain  of  the  Puritan  fugitives  to  America,  and  they 
nourished  the  spirit  of  religion  in  secret  or  in  little  com- 


6  Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

munities.  The  highest  Elizabethan  literature  is  at  once 
mundane  and,  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word,  religious. 
At  a  later  time  the  mundane  literature  became  wholly 
mundane,  often  even  frivolously  or  basely  mundane ; 
the  religious  literature,  when  it  ceases  from  controversy, 
often  ceases  to  regard  the  affairs  of  earth,  which  is  but 
a  City  of  Destruction  or  a  Vanity  Fair,  and  has  its  gaze 
intensely  fixed  upon  another  world,  where  the  Saint  will 
attain  his  Rest. 

II 

One  of  the  first  effects  of  the  Protestant  Reformation 
was  a  quickening  of  self-consciousness  in  matters  of 
religion.  External  rites,  ordinances,  and  ceremonies 
seemed  for  many  devout  men  and  women  to  lose  much 
of  their  virtue.  To  some  they  became  matters  of  in- 
difference ;  to  others  they  appeared  hostile  to^  the  true 
life  of  the  soul.  The  realm  of  sense  was  viewed  as  if 
it  were  separated  by  a  deep  gulf  from  the  realm  of  the 
spirit.  There  have,  indeed,  always  existed  the  two  types 
of  mind  which  we  may  call  the  Catholic  and  the  Puritan, 
to  one  of  which  the  visible  and  the  invisible  are  only 
different  aspects  of  one  great  reality, while  to  the  other  they 
stand  apart  as  sundered  or  even  as  antagonistic  powers. 
In  a  review  of  Newman's  ''Phases  of  Faith,"  written  many 
years  ago  by  the  most  venerable  of  recent  thinkers, 
Dr  Martineau  endeavours  to  distinguish  between  these  two 
conceptions  of  life  and  the  world  and  of  God's  relation  to 
it  in  a  passage  which  it  is  worth  while  to  quote  at  some 
length.  According  to  the  Catholic  conception  the  two 
spheres  of  sense  and  spirit  seem  to  melt  into  each  other 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature  7 

under  themediation  of  a  kind  of  divine  chemistry ;  ''hence/' 
he  goes  od,  ''the  invariable  presence  of  some  physical 
element  in  all  that  Catholicism  looks  upon  as  venerable. 
Its  rites  are  a  manipular  invocation  of  God.  Its  miracles 
are  examples  of  incarnate  divineness  in  old  clothes  and 
winking  pictures.  Its  ascetic  discipline  is  founded  on 
the  notion  of  a  gradual  consumption  of  the  grosser  body 
by  the  encroaching  fire  of  the  spirit ;  till  in  the  ecstatica 
the  frame  itself  becomes  ethereal  and  the  lic^ht  shines 
through.  Nothing  can  be  more  offensive  than  all  this 
to  the  Evangelical  [or,  as  we  may  put  it,  the  Puritan] 
conception,  which  plants  the  natural  and  the  spiritual  in 
irreconcilable  contradiction,  denies  to  them  all  approach 
or  contact,  and  allows  each  to  exist  only  by  the  extinction 
of  the  other.  .  .  .  This  unmediated  dualism  follows 
the  Evangelical  into  his  theory  as  to  the  state  of  each 
individual  soul  before  God.  The  Catholic  does  not  deny 
all  divine  light  to  the  natural  conscience,  or  all  power 
to  the  naturjil  will  of  unconverted  men  :  he  maintains 
that  these  also  are  already  under  a  law  of  obligation, 
may  do  what  is  well-pleasing  before  God,  and  by  superior 
faithfulness  qualify  themselves  to  become  subjects  of 
grace  ;  so  that  the  Gospel  shall  come  upon  them  as  a 
divine  supplement  to  the  sad  and  feeble  moral  life  of 
nature.  To  the  Evangelical,  on  the  contrary,  the  soul 
that  is  not  saved  is  lost.  .  .  .  So,  again,  the  contrast 
turns  up  in  the  opposite  views  taken  of  the  divine 
economy  in  human  affairs.  The  Evangelical  detaches 
the  elect  in  imagination  from  the  remainino^  mass  of 
men,  sequesters  them  as  a  holy  people,  who  must  not 
mix  themselves  with  the  affairs  of  Belial.     .     .     .    The 


8  Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

Catholic,  looking  on  the  natural  universe,  whether 
material  or  humao,  not  as  an  antagonist  but  as  the 
receptacle  of  the  spiritual,  seeks  to  conquer  the  World 
for  the  Church,  and  instead  of  shunning  political  action, 
is  ready  to  grasp  it  as  his  instrument." 

The  tendency  to  the  one  or  the  other  of  these  religious 
conceptions,  adds  Mr  Martineau,  marks  the  distinction 
between  two  great  families  of  minds.  How,  we  may 
inquire,  does  each  conception  adapt  itself  to  literature 
and  especially  to  the  literature  of  imagination?  We  can 
at  once  perceive  that  what  has  been  named  the  Catholic 
conception  more  readily  finds  that  sensuous  vehicle  for 
its  ideas  which  literature  and  art  demand.  It  interprets 
the  invisible  by  the  visible  ;  it  does  not  suspect  beauty 
or  colour  or  the  delight  of  life,  but  seeks  to  inter- 
penetrate these  with  what  is  divine.  The  danger  is 
that  it  may  mistake  what  is  arbitrary,  artificial,  or  merely 
traditional  for  that  which  is  natural,  and  so  may  con- 
struct a  body  of  factitious  symbolism  instead  of  discovering 
the  veritable  play  of  what  is  spiritual  in  and  through 
what  is  sensible.  Such  factitious  symbolism  debars  or 
diverts  the  mind  from  the  genuine  sources  of  light ;  at 
best  it  serves  as  a  receptacle  for  truth  or  passion  trans- 
ferred to  it  from  the  mind  itself  In  this  large  sense 
of  the  word  "  Catholic  "  we  might  name  Wordsworth  in 
some  of  his  earlier  poems  a  true  Catholic,  discovering, 
as  he  does,  the  ideal  in  the  real,  the  divine  in  the 
natural,  the  invisible  in  the  visible  ;  and  we  might 
name  Keble,  in  certain  of  his  verses,  a  pseudo-Catholic, 
applying,  as  he  sometimes  does,  a  factitious  or  a  traditional 
symbolism   to  sanctify  what  in  reality  is  sacred  in  itself. 


Puritanism  and  English  Literahire  9 

For  the  Puritan,  on  the  other  hand,  using  the  word  to 
describe  a  type  of  mind,  the  natural  and  the  supernatural 
exist  in  an  uu mediated  dualism,  and  it  is  a  difficulty 
with  him  to  clothe  the  naked  idea — reliofious  or  ethical 
— in  any  sensuous  medium  or  body.  Hence  Puritanism 
in  itself  is  ill  fitted  to  produce  a  great  art.  Yet  the 
inward  life  of  the  soul  may  be  intense,  and  tbe  more 
intense  because  it  does  not  readily  distribute  itself 
through  appointed  forms  ;  and  absorbing  thoughts  and 
passions  cannot  fail  in  some  way  to  discover  or  to  create 
that  outward  vehicle  through  which  alone  they  can 
secure  a  complete  self-realisation. 

In  the  Fourth  Part  of  *'  The  Saints'  Everlasting  Rest  " 
Baxter  considers  the  aids  which  the  senses  can  afford  to 
the  spirit.  It  is  a  point  of  spiritual  prudence,  he  says, 
to  make  friends  of  powers  which  are  usually  our  enemies; 
our  senses  and  their  objects  would  not  have  been  given 
to  us  by  God  if  they  might  not  be  serviceable  in  His 
own  praise  ;  the  Holy  Ghost  in  the  phrase  of  Scripture 
sets  forth  the  excellences  of  things  spiritual  in  imagery 
borrowed  from  the  objects  of  sense  ;  the  Son  of  God 
assumed  our  human  nature  "  that  we  might  know  Him 
the  better."  Are  we,  then,  to  think  heaven  to  be  made 
of  gold  and  pearl  ?  Or  picture  Christ,  '*  as  the  Papists 
do,"  in  such  a  shape  ?  Or  believe  that  departed  saints 
and  angels  do  indeed  eat  and  drink  ?  Or  hold  that  God 
actually  is  moved  by  human  passions  ?  Not  so  :  we  are 
to  accept  such  notions  as  aids  to  our  infirmity,  but  they 
cease  to  be  aids  when  we  take  them  for  a  literal  presen- 
tation of  the  facts  ;  the  condescending  language  of  the 
Spirit  is  so  designed  that  we  may  "raise  suppositions 


lo        Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

from  our  bodily  senses,"  and  so  elevate  our  affections 
towards  things  invisible. 

*'  Suppose  with  thyself  thou  hadst  been  that  Apostle's 
fellow  traveller  into  the  celestial  kingdom,  and  that  thou 
hadst  seen  all  the  saints  in  their  white  robes,  with  palms 
in  their  hands ;  suppose  thou  hadst  heard  those  songs 
of  Moses  and  the  Lamb ;  or  didst  even  now  hear  them 
praising  and  glorifying  the  living  God.  If  thou  hadst 
seen  these  things  indeed,  in  what  a  rapture  wouldst  thou 
have  been  ?  .  .  .  I  would  not  have  thee,  as  the 
Papists,  draw  them  in  pictures,  nor  use  mysterious,  signi- 
ficant ceremonies  to  represent  them.  This,  as  it  is  a 
course  forbidden  by  God,  so  it  would  but  seduce  and  draw 
down  thy  heart ;  but  get  the  liveliest  picture  of  them  in 
thy  mind  that  possibly  thou  canst."^ 

Thus  the  imaginations  of  a  Michael  Angelo  or  a  Raphael 
are  forbidden  to  serve  their  fellows,  unless  they  can  em- 
ploy, like  Baxter  himself,  the  medium  of  written  words 
instead  of  the  more  suitable  language  of  colour  and  of  line. 

In  his  criticism  of  English  Puritanism,  Matthew 
Arnold  strangely  misconceived  its  essential  character 
and  its  governing  idea.  Puritanism,  he  told  us, 
existed  for  the  sake  of  certain  doctrines  derived  mainly 
from  an  imperfect  interpretation  of  the  writings  of 
Paul  —  the  doctrines  of  predestination,  original  sin, 
imputed  righteousness,  justification  by  faith.  The 
historical  answer  is  suflficieut :  these  doctrines,  though 
truly  Puritan  in  their  tendency,  were  held  by  many 
members  of  the  Church  of  England  who  were  outside 
of   the    Puritan    party    and    were    even    opposed   to   it 

^  "Saints'  Everlasting  Rest,"  Part  IV.,  section  ii. 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature         1 1 

The  ceremonial  controversy  preceded  the  controversy 
concerning  theological  dogma  ;  it  was  independent,  in 
a  large  measure,  of  the  controversy  as  to  Church 
government.  To  discover  the  dominant  idea  of  Puri- 
tanism we  must  look  beyond  dogma  to  something 
common  to  every  phase  of  the  great  contention.  And 
undoubtedly  the  unvarying  central  element  was  this — 
Puritanism  maintained,  as  far  as  was  possible,  that  the 
relation  between  the  invisible  spirit  of  man  and  the 
invisible  God  was  immediate^ rather  than  mediate.  It 
set  little  store  by  tradition,  because  God  had  spoken  to 
man  directly  in  the  words  of  revelation.  It  distrusted 
human  ceremonies,  because  these  stood  between  the 
creature  and  his  Creator ;  the  glory  of  the  Christian 
temple  is  the  holiness  of  the  living  temple  which  rises 
in  the  heart  of  the  child  of  God.  The  pretensions  of 
an  ecclesiastical  hierarchy  are  an  estrangement  of  the 
adopted  son  of  the  Father ;  every  lay  Christian  is  him- 
self a  royal  priest.  The  Calvinistic  doctrines,  on  which 
Matthew  Arnold  laid  extreme  and  exclusive  stress,  were 
maintained  because  they  were  held  to  be  Scriptural,  and 
also  because  they  seemed  to  bring  the  divine  agency 
immediately  into  every  part  of  human  life  :  predestina- 
tion meant  the  presence  of  God's  foreknowledge  and 
God's  will  in  every  act  and  thought  that  pulsates  on 
the  globe ;  imputed  righteousness  meant  that  Christ 
and  His  faithful  follower  were  regarded  by  the  Father 
as  one  ;  and  through  faith,  which  justifies  the  believer, 
that  union  is  effected.  / 

Such  was  the  central  idea  of  Puritanism.     Its  cardinal 
error,  which  in  many  directions  tended  to  defeat  its  own 


1 2        Pttritanism  and  English  Literature 

purpose,  lay  in  a  narrow  conception  of  God  as  the  God 
of  righteousness  alone,  and  not  as  also  the  God  of  joy 
and  beauty  and  intellectual  light.  The  higher  Puritan- 
ism has  been  preached  in  our  own  day  by  Browning  : 

"  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor  power. 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  melodist 
When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour." 

It  was  taught  by  Goethe  in  "  Wilhelm  Meister,"  where 
the  uncle  of  the  devout  lady,  in  the  eighth  book,  instructs 
his  niece  that  the  lit  lamp  and  the  girt  loin  are  needful 
for  other  things  than  the  culture  of  the  religious  spirit. 
But  among  the  Puritans  of  the  seventeenth  century  few 
besides  Milton,  who  was  more  than  a  Puritan,  had  that 
coherent  conception  of  human  life  and  human  culture 
which  recognises  the  Divine  Spirit  as  present  and  oper- 
ative in  all  the  higher  strivings  of  man.  Scholarship, 
knowledge,  beauty,  art  appeared  to  Milton  to  be  sacred 
things  ;  means  by  which  the  ''  ruins  of  our  first  parents  " 
may  be  repaired  ;  means,  therefore,  by  which  we  may 
recover  the  image  of  God,  and  possess  our  souls  in  true 
''virtue"  in  its  widest  sense,  ''which,  being  united  to 
the  heavenly  grace  of  faith,  makes  up  the  highest  per- 
fection." 

Religious  ideas  and  religious  emotions,  under  the 
influence  of  the  Puritan  habit  of  mind,  seek  to  realise 
themselves  not  in  art,  but,  without  any  intervening 
medium,  in  character,  in  conduct,  in  life.  It  is  thus 
that  the  gulf  between  sense  and  spirit  is  bridged  :  not 
in  marble  or  in  colour  is  the  invisible  made  visible,  but 
in  action  public  and  private — "ye  are  the  temples  of 
the  Holy  Ghost."     In  an  ordered  life,  an  ordered  house- 


PMritanisni  and  English  Literature         13 

hold,  an  ordered  commonwealth,  according  to  the  ideal 
of  Puritanism,  the  spirit  is  to  be  incarnated.  Let  the 
praise  which  Yirgil  gives  to  the  Roman  people  be  trans- 
lated into  Evangelical  meanings  and  it  applies  accurately 
enough  to  the  Puritan  ideal  : 

"  Others,  I  ween,  to  softer  form  shall  mould 
The  breathing  bronze,  shall  win  the  living  face 
From  marble,  plead  the  cause  with  happier  skill, 
Map  out  the  skies,  and  name  each  rising  star. 
Roman  !  be  thine  to  rule  the  tribes  of  men  ; 
These  be  thy  arts  ;  the  discij)line  of  peace, 
To  raise  the  fallen,  to  lay  low  the  proud." 

Through  what  was  practical  in  the  Puritan  spirit,  when 
seen  at  its  highest,  a  noble  ideality  breaks  forth.  Its 
canticles  of  joy  and  thanksgiving,  if  heard  meanly  in  the 
church  or  chapel,  are  heard  nobly  on  the  battlefield.  If 
Puritanism  did  not  fashion  an  Apollo  with  the  bow  or  a 
Venus  with  the  apple,  it  fashioned  virile  Englishmen. 

"  We  that  serve  you,"  writes  Cromwell  to  the  Speaker  ' 
of  the  Parliament  immediately  after  the  amazing  victory 
of  Dunbar,  *'  beg  of  you  not  to  own  us — but  God  alone. 
We  pray  you  own  this  people  more  and  more ;  for  they 
are  the  chariots  and  horsemen  of  Israel.      Disown  your- 
selves ; — but  own  your  authority  ;    and  improve  it  to 
curb  the  proud  and   the  insolent,  such  as  would  disturb 
the  tranquillity  of  England,  though  under  what  specious 
pretences  soever.     Relieve  the  oppressed,  hear  the  groans 
of  poor  prisoners  in  England.     Be  pleased  to  reform  the 
abuses  of  all  professions  :-^and  if  there  be  any  one  that 
makes  many  poor  to   make  a  few  rich,  that  suits  not  • 
a  Commonwealth.'    If  He  that  strengthens  your  servants! 
to  fight,  please   to  give   you   hearts  to  set   upon  these 


14        Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

things,  in  order  to  His  glory,  and  the  glory  of  your 
Commonwealth, — besides  the  benefit  England  shall  feel 
thereby,  you  shaJl  shine  forth  to  other  nations,  who  shall 
emulate  the  glory  of  such  a  pattern,  and  through  the 
power  of  God  turn-in  to  the  like." 

Hce  tihi  erunt  artes. 

And  since  the  instinct  of  beauty  works  indefatigably 
in  man,  other  arts  may  be  looked  for  in  time  to  grow 
upon  the  foundation  of  a  life  of  righteousness.  Conti- 
nental, if  not  English,  critics  have  recognised  the  fact 
that  a  Puritan  strain  has  entered  into  much  that  is  most 
characteristic  in  our  literature.  It  is  present  in  the 
"  Faerie  Queene  "  as  well  as  in  "  Samson  Agonistes  "  ; 
in  the  ''  Vision  of  Sin,"  the  ''  Palace  of  Art,"  the  ''  Idylls 
of  the  King";  in  the  poetry  of  the  author  of  ''Dipsychus  " 
and  the  poetry  of  the  author  of  "  Christmas  Eve  »and 
Easter  Day  "  ;  in  the  prose  of  '*  Sartor  Eesartus."  And 
though  Matthew  Arnold  said  hard  things,  and  some  of 
them  not  without  good  reason,  of  English  Puritanism, 
the  son  of  Thomas  Arnold  could  not  escape  from  an 
hereditary  influence  ;  the  Hellenic  tendency  in  his  poetry 
is  constantly  checked  and  controlled  by  the  Hebraic 
tendency  as  it  had  been  accepted  and  modified  by  the 
English  mind. 

Ill 

Fortunately  for  Puritan  art  in  the  seventeenth  century 
there  was  a  great  body  of  literature  which  was  regarded 
as  sacred.  Puritanism  may  have  suspected  the  literature 
of  Greece  and  Kome  ;  it  may  have  cast  some  scorn  upon 
the  glory  of  Mediaeval  art ;  but  it  venerated  the  Old  and 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature         15 

the  New  Testaments.  Not  with  a  fully  enlightened 
intelligence  ;  not,  certainly,  in  the  way  of  modern  criti- 
cism ;  but  it  found  in  the  Bible  a  rule  of  life  and  a 
storehouse  of  ideas  ;  it  fed  its  passions  with  the  passions 
of  the  Hebrew  singers  and  prophets ;  its  imagination 
adopted  the  antique  garb,  not  in  the  manner  of  mumming 
or  disguising,  but  as  proper  for  the  uses  of  the  day  ;  it 
found  in  narrative  and  vision  and  parable  a  vehicle, 
already  sanctified,  for  the  invisible  ;  it  carried  the  genius 
of  the  Scriptures  into  the  very  heart  and  soul  of  England. 
The  moral  rigour  and  the  anti-ceremonial  spirit  of 
Puritanism  in  their  immediate  effects  were  unfavourable 
to  a  generous  development  of  art ;  in  their  indirect 
effects,  quickening  as  they  did  the  spiritual  consciousness, 
bracing  character  in  a  period  of  relaxation,  and  intensi- 
fying the  individual  temper  in  matters  of  religion,  they 
were  not  wholly  unfavourable.  In  the  second  half  ot 
the  seventeenth  century,  from  amid  the  literature  of 
moral  licence,  when  the  imagination  of  the  time,  out- 
wardly graceful  and  humane,  was  inwardly  gross — 

''  To  vice  industrious,  but  to  nobler  deeds 
Timorous  and  slothful " — 

rise  those  creations  to  which  the  Puritan  spirit  contributed 
— ''Paradise  Lost,"  ''Paradise  Regained,"  the  "Pilgrim's 
Progress  "  ;  and,  apart  from  the  Puritan  influence,  such 
works  are  inexplicable.  The  great  intellectual  fact  of 
the  age  was  the  scientific  movement :  it  liberated  the 
minds  of  men  from  the  bondage  of  a  narrow  Scripturalism ; 
but  who  shall  say  that  the  large  part  which  England 
took  in  the  scientific  movement — itself  a  European 
rather  than  an  English  phenomenon — was  not  aided  by 


1 6         Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

the  habit  of  the  loins  girt  and  by  the  lit  lamp,  by  the 
seriousness  of  spirit,  now  transferred  from  Scripture  and 
the  moral  world  to  external  nature,  which  Puritanism 
had  encouraged  and  sustained  ?  In  Newton  and  his 
fellow  inquirers  of  the  Royal  Society  the  seriousness  of 
the  Protestant  Reformation  was  reunited  with  the  ex- 
ploring intellect  of  the  Renaissance. 

In  the  appalling  loss  of  a  living  authority  which  should 
declare  infallible  doctrine,  it  was  fortunate  that  men  could 
in  some  degree  steady  themselves  by  the  support  of  the 
infallible  written  Word.  Puritanism  helped  the  Protestant 
Reformation,  in  its  more  extreme  developments,  to  define 
itself  both  in  its  weakness  and  its  strength.  The  entire 
ecclesiastical  polity  was  to  be  modelled  on  the  Scriptures  ; 
some  thinkers  desired  to  model  on  Biblical  example  the 
entire  polity  of  the  State.  When  Milton  would  justify 
the  deposition  and  condemnation  of  the  King,  he  proves 
from  Scripture  that  kings  and  magistrates  hold  their 
authority  from  the  people  :  "  David  first  made  a  cove- 
nant with  the  elders  of  Israel,  and  so  was  by  them 
anointed  king;  Jehoida  the  priest,  making  Jehoash 
kinor,  established  a  covenant  between  him  and  the 
people.  When  Roboam,  at  his  coming  to  the  crown, 
rejected  those  conditions  which  the  Israelites  brought  him, 
they  answer  him,  '  What  portion  have  we  in  David, 
or  inheritance  in  the  son  of  Jesse  ?  See  to  thine 
own  house,  David.'  "  It  was  the  unqualified  reference 
of  all  forms  of  religious  order  and  duty  to  Scripture 
that  Hooker  set  himself  to  oppose  and  to  correct. 
Every  rite  or  ceremony,  every  garment  worn,  unless 
it  could  be  justified  by  a  precedent  or  a  text  of  the 


Ptcritanism  and  English  Literature         1 7 

Bible,  was  condemned  as  unwarrantable.  The  per- 
suasions of  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Professors  of 
Divinity,  who  happened  to  be  two  foreigners,  Peter 
Martp'  and  Bucer,  were  needed  to  induce  Hooper  to 
wear  his  consecration  robes  ;  once  he  preached  in  the 
questionable  garb,  and  never  again.  The  ring  in 
marriage,  the  cross  at  baptism,  the  posture  at  Holy 
Communion,  the  music  of  organ-pipes,  were  causes 
of  serious  doubts  and  scruples.  Somewhat  later  the 
controversy  turned  chiefly  upon  matters  of  Church 
government  and  discipline ;  but  still  the  central 
question  was  the  same — Could  this  or  that  be  justified 
by  the  authority  of  Scripture  ?  Finally,  in  the  reign 
of  James  I.,  when  the  Arminian  High  -  churchmen 
became  dominant  in  the  Anglican  communion,  the 
questions  grew  of  deeper  import  —  they  concerned 
doctrine,  which  Hooker  himself  would  have  deter- 
mined alone  by  the  written   Word. 

A  new  race  of  schoolmen — Protestant  schoolmen 
of  the  Eeformation — arose.  Elaborate  systems  of 
theology  were  constructed,  and  the  substance  of  those 
of  the  school  of  Calvin  may  still  be  found  operative 
in  the  Westminster  Confession  of  Faith  and  the 
Longer  and  Shorter  Catechisms.  An  admirable  in- 
tellectual gymnastic  they  afford  to  a  certain  class  of 
minds,  and  one  who  has  mastered  even  his  Shorter 
Catechism  will  have  all  the  advantages  (and  the  dis- 
advantages) which  attend  a  resolute  effort  to  interpret 
the  whole  of  things  as  a  coherent  scheme.  The  Holy 
Scriptures  were,  of  course,  accepted  as  the  sole  basis 
of    the   faith.      An    attempt   was   made   to    define   the 

B 


1 8         Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

nature   of  God,   to   set   forth   His  attributes  ;    and   the 
body    of    Calvinistic    theology,    with    the    precise    plan 
of  salvation,   was   exactly  laid    down.      All  was  as  de- 
finitely  mapped    out   as   the    structure  of   the  heavens 
in  the   Ptolemaic   astronomy.      That  sense  of  awe  and 
mystery    derived    from     the    Unknown    and    the    Un- 
knowable,   in    which    some    thinkers    have    found    the 
essence  of  religion,  was   present   only  in   a  subordinate 
degree.      Things   the   angels  desire  to   look   into  might 
be  boldly  scrutinised  by  the  theologian,  for  were  they 
not    revealed    in    the    written   Word  ?      The    source    of 
religious     emotion     was    not    the    unknown    but    the 
known  ;    and   this  was  methodically   arranged    so    as  to 
present  it  with   the   utmost    precision  to   the  intellect. 
But   in   what   had   been   ascertained   were   many  things 
wonderful,    many   things    capable    of    inspiring    solemn 
awe,  the  brightest  hope,  the  most  overwhelming  terror. 
God's    eternal   decree    by   which,   for   the  manifestation 
of  His   glory,  some  men  are  predestined  to  everlasting 
life    and    others  are   foreordained   to   everlasting   death, 
the    creation    of    the   world    out   of   nothing,  the    con- 
stant,  wise    and    holy  providence    of    the    Creator    over 
His  work,  man's  fall,  God's  covenant  with    the   human 
race,   the   inheritance   of   sin,  the   mediation   of   Christ, 
the    irresistible    nature    of    grace,   the    effectual    calling 
and    final   perseverance   of   the   saints,   the   endless  joy 
of    heaven,   the    endless    ornashino^   of    teeth   in    hell — 
these  were  themes  for  passionate  contemplation,  sources 
of  agony,  sources  of  rapture.      Undoubtedly  the  whole 
scheme  of  belief,  if  imposing  on  some  a  burden  which 
they  were    not    able    to   bear,   was    one   which    helped 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature         19 

to  form  certain  eminent  types  of  character,  to  regulate 
conduct,  to  prompt  steadfast  and  heroic  action.  \  No 
believer  could  suppose  that  he  lived  in  a  world  of 
chaos  or  blind  chance.  ''•  A  just,  intelligent,  inflexible 
Ruler  presided  over  the  material  world,  over  human 
society,  over  the  course  of  individual  lives.  /At  the 
lowest  the  body  of  doctrine  was  a  translation — in 
part,  perhaps,  a  mistranslation — into  supposed  objective 
facts,  of  the  monitions  and  premonitions,  awful  or 
blessed,  of  man's  moral  nature,  with  such  additions 
and  modifications  as  seemed  to  be  required  by  the 
statements  of  revelation. 

And  as  there  were  schoolmen  of  the  Reformation 
who  built  up  a  huge  fabric  of  doctrine,  so  there 
were  Protestant  moralists  and  casuists  who  drew  out 
to  the  utmost  detail  a  corresponding  system  of  con- 
duct. From  the  Puritan  theologians,  Perkins  and 
Ames,  the  study  of  casuistry  passed  to  the  hands  of 
Sanderson,  Hall,  and  Jeremy  Taylor.  The  "  Christian 
Directory,  or  Sum  of  Practical  Theology  and  Cases  of 
Conscience,"  by  Richard  Baxter,  passes  from  Christian 
ethics,  or  the  private  duties  of  Christians,  to  ecooomics 
or  family  duties,  and  so  proceeds  to  ecclesiastics,  or 
Church  duties,  and  Christian  politics,  or  duties  to 
our  rulers  and  neighbours.  The  catalogue  of  duties 
and  the  catalogue  of  breaches  of  duty  are  elaborated 
with  a  minuteness  which  may  lose  something  of  the 
amplitude  of  a  free  and  generous  loyalty  to  good, 
but  which  undoubtedly  exhibits  conscience  as  pre- 
siding over   every  act   of  human   life. 

'After    discussing    thirty    tongue-sins    and    twenty 


20        Puritanism  and  E^iglish  Literature 

questions  for  the  conviction  of  drunkards ;  eighteen 
necessary  qualifications  of  lawful  recreation ;  eighteen 
sorts  that  are  sinful ;  and  twelve  convincing  questions 
to  those  who  plead  for  such  pastimes ;  thirty-six 
questions  about  contracts ;  twenty  about  buying  and 
selling ;  sixteen  respecting  theft ;  and  one  hundred 
and  seventy-four  about  matters  ecclesiastical,  he  yet 
regrets  that  the  want  of  his  library  at  the  time 
when  he  composed  the  work  prevented  him  from  en- 
larging; his  enumeration   of  cases."  ^ 

With  the  aid  of  those  keen  scenters,  ''  Sayrus, 
Fragosa,  Eoderigues,  Tolet,"  the  rat-hunt  for  sins 
might  have  yielded  better  sport.  The  excessive  in- 
wardness of  the  Puritan  spirit  quickened  the  mental 
eye  for  every  detail  that  tended  to  moral  good  or 
evil.  The  genius  of  Duty  which  carries  in  its  head 
the  thirty  tongue-vsins  and  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
four  questions  concerning  Church  affairs  may  not  be 
exactly  the   Duty  invoked   in  Wordsworth's   ode  : 

"  Flowers  laugb.  before  thee  in  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads." 

Nevertheless,  in  a  time  of  careless  living  and  declining 
morals,  the  error  of  too  scrupulous  self-superintendence 
is  not  the  most  grievous  error. 


IV 

We  know  sufficiently  through  the  caricatures  of 
dramatists  and  novelists  the  grotesque  side  of  Puritan 
morals  and   manners— ^the  affectations  of  the  precisian, 

^Principal  Tullocli  in  his  study  of  Baxter;   and  Orme's   "Life  and 
Writings  of  Baxter,"  ii.  175. 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature         21 

the  scruples  with  regard  to  things  innocent,  the  casuistry 
by  which  self-indulgence  was  sanctified,  the  Hebraic 
phraseology,  the  danger  of  moroseness  of  temper.  Among 
the  various  bodies  of  sectaries  exploring  their  way  with 
little  guidance,  roused  to  all  manner  of  extravagances  of 
feeling,  interpreting  the  words  of  Scripture  by  an  inner 
light,  intolerant  in  their  rival  orthodoxies,  there  was 
ample  material  for  a  caricature.  But  among  the  Puritans 
were  not  a  few  men  and  women  who  added  to  purity 
of  morals  and  the  happiness  of  domestic  affections, 
guarded  as  sacred,  the  best  graces  of  culture  and  refine- 
ment. The  Puritan  gentleman  might  surprise  a  nine- 
teenth-century drawing-room  by  certain  peculiarities  of 
manner  and  of  speech,  but  he  would  not  offend  by 
brutal  licence.  His  temper  might  be  grave  rather  than 
buoyantly  gay,  but  he  would  possess  within  certain 
springs  of  happiness  which  do  not  sap  the  genuine  joy 
of  human  life.  He  might  be  a  scholar,  a  lover  of  music, 
a  lover  of  letters.  Cromwell's  chaplain,  Peter  Sterry, 
who  was  an  adviser  in  the  purchase  by  the  State  of  books 
from  Ussher's  collection,  was  a  lover  of  the  work  of 
Titian  and  Vandyke.  We  remember  the  early  home  of 
Milton,  the  house  of  a  London  scrivener  of  Puritanic 
faith  and  Puritanic  habits,  where  the  father  would  join 
in  madrigals  of  his  own  composing,  and  the  boy,  by  his 
father's  desire  and  through  his  own  passion  for  learning, 
would  remain  till  midnight  busy  with  his  poets  of 
Greece  and  Rome  and  his  French  and  Italian  studies. 
It  was  of  a  Puritan  divine,  Thomas  Young,  that  Milton 
afterwards  wrote  :  '*  First,  under  his  guidance,  I  explored 
the  recesses  of  the   Muses,   and  beheld  the  sacred  green 


i 


22         Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

spots  of  the  cleft  summit  of  Parnassus,  and  quaffed  the 
Pierian  cups,  and,  Clio  favouring  me,  thrice  sprinkled 
my  joyous  mouth  with  Castalian  wine."  We  think  of 
the  beautiful  record  of  her  husband's  life  written  by 
Lucy  Hutchinson.  This  Puritan  soldier,  son  of  one  who 
also  took  the  side  of  the  Parliament,  ''  was  apt,"  so  his 
wife  tells  us,  "  for  any  bodily  exercise  ;  ...  he  could 
dance  admirably  well,  but  neither  in  youth  nor  riper 
years  made  any  practice  of  it ;  he  had  skill  in  fencing 
such  as  became  a  gentleman  ;  he  had  a  great  love  of 
music,  and  often  diverted  himself  with  a  viol,  on  which 
he  played  masterly  ;  and  he  had  an  exact  ear  and  judg- 
ment in  other  music  ;  ...  he  had  great  judgment  in 
paintings,  'gravings,  sculpture,  and  all  liberal  arts,  and 
had  many  curiosities  of  value  in  all  kinds  ;  ...  he  was 
wonderfully  neat,  cleanly,  and  genteel  in  his  habit,  and 
had  a  very  good  fancy  in  it ;  but  he  left  off  very  early 
the  wearing  of  anything  that  was  costly,  yet  in  his 
plainest,  negligent  habit  appeared  very  much  a  gentle- 
man ;  .  .  .  his  conversation  was  very  pleasant,  for  he 
was  naturally  cheerful,  had  a  ready  wit  and  apprehension; 
.  .  .  everything  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  do  he 
did  with  delight,  free  and  unconstrained." 

"  He  was,"  writes  his  wife,  "  as  kind  a  father,  as  dear 
a  brother,  as  good  a  master,  as  faithful  a  friend  as  the 
world  had." 

Colonel  Hutchinson,  the  regicide,  was  a  member  of  the 
first  two  Councils  of  the  Commonwealth.  It  may  at 
first  sight  appear  a  strange  inconsistency  that  the  Puritan 
party,  possessed  as  many  of  its  members  truly  were  by  a 
spirit  of  inwardness,  and  looking  as  they  did,  to  another 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature         23 

country,  that  is,  an  heavenly,  should  yet  have  taken 
a  passionate  interest  in  mundane  affairs.  There  were 
doubtless  material  concerns  which  deeply  moved  them — 
unjust  taxation,  the  exercise  of  arbitrary  power  in  the 
State ;  there  were  ecclesiastical  concerns — the  offence  of 
ceremonialism,  the  infringement  of  the  claim  to  liberty 
of  worship  iu  the  way  their  conscience  dictated.  But  it 
is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  such  a  faith  as  theirs  should 
weaken  or  impair  activity  in  mundane  affairs.  /  Not 
through  sacred  symbol,  not  through  the  glories  or  the 
pomps  of  art  was  their  faith  to  find  an  outward  mani- 
festation, but  through  conduct  and  public  action.  The 
belief  that  the  order  of  the  world  is  a  divine  order,  that 
each  man  has  his  allotted  part  in  maintaining  it,  that  a 
great  contention  is  in  progress  between  the  powers  of 
darkness  and  of  light,  that  the  victory  will  be  the  Lord's, 
but  through  His  human  instruments,  nerves  the  believer 
to  put  forth  all  his  strength  on  behalf  of  what  he  holds 
to  be  the  cause  of  his  Supreme  Ruler.  The  creed  of 
Calvinism  is  called  by  Mr  Froude  a  creed  of  intellectual 
servitude,  but  he  has  hardly  exaggerated  the  fact  when 
he  declares  that  it  was  able  to  inspire  and  sustain  the 
bravest  efforts  ever  made  by  man  to  break  the  yoke  of 
unjust  authority.  In  proof  of  his  assertion  he  cites 
the  names  of  William  the  Silent,  Knox,  Andrew  Melville, 
the  Regent  Murray,  Coligny,  Cromwell,  Milton.  If 
obedience  to  the  will  of  God  be  man's  highest  duty,  a 
part  of  that  duty  must  be  to  make  the  will  of  God 
prevail  on  earth,  to  widen  the  borders  of  light,  and 
co-operate,  as  far  as  a  human  creature  may,  in  driving 
back   the   edge  of  darkness.      The  Puritan  had  hitched 


24        Puritanism  and  English  Literatui^e 

his  waggon  to  a  star ;  whether  a  star  of  bale  or  benison 
remained  to  be  proved. 

Here  was  something  to  counterbalance  the  inwardness 
of  the  Puritan  spirit,  something  to  maintain  a  just 
equipoise  of  character.  And  if  in  taking  the  Bible  as 
their  guide  they  often  read  into  it  their  own  meanings, 
often  gave  it  passionate  misinterpretations,  often  applied 
to  modern  life  what  was  of  transitory  significance,  still  in 
the  Bible  they  had  a  veritable  manual  of  moral  wisdom 
and  high  common  sense.  It  has  been  truly  said  that 
from  the  Bible  the  noblest  minds  among  the  Puritans 
imbibed  not  merely  the  great  enthusiasm  which  it 
expresses,  but  also  the  strong  practical  sagacity  and 
broad  right-mindedness  of  which  it  is  the  emphatic 
teacher.^  The  passion  for  righteousness  could  ally 
itself  with  a  spirit  of  prudent  and  patient  opportunism. 
''  If  ever  there  was  a  man  who  suffered  fools  gladly,  who 
sought  to  influence  and  persuade,  and  who  was  ready  to 
get  something  tolerable  done  by  consent  rather  than 
get  something  better  done  by  forcing  it  on  unwilling 
minds,  that  man  was  Cromwell."^ 

We  have  seen  some  of  the  formative  influences  from 
which  a  Puritan  literature  might  arise.  But  we  must 
bear  in  mind  the  fact  that  Puritanism  was  only  for 
a  short  time  triumphant.  Except  for  a  few  years, 
Puritanism  was  militant  or  Puritanism  was  depressed. 
We  can  only  conjecture  whether  a  great  literature 
would    have     developed    on    a    Puritan    basis    if    the 

^  J.  L.  Sanford,   "Studies  and  Illustrations  of  the  Great  Rebellion, " 
p.  81. 
2  S.  R.  Gardiner,  "  Cromwell's  Place  in  History,"  p.  48. 


Puritanism  and  Bnglisk  Literature        25 

Commonwealth  bad  existed  even  for  one  entire  genera- 
tion ;  we  can  only  surmise  on  the  question  whether 
righteousness  would  have  flowered  in  beauty  and  severity 
have  worn  the  garments  of  joy.  Mantegna's  "Triumph 
of  Caesar "  and  Raphael's  cartoons  (which  Charles  II. 
was  ready  to  sell)  were  saved  for  the  nation  by 
Cromwell.  Two  organs  stood  in  the  great  hall  at 
Hampton  Court,  and  a  pupil  of  Orlando  Gibbons  was 
the  Protector's  organist.  At  the  wedding-feast  of  the 
Protector's  daughter  Frances  forty-eight  violins  dis- 
coursed excellent  music,  and  the  company  frolicked 
and  danced  until  five  o'clock  of  the  November  morning. 
For  his  daughter  Mary's  marriage  Andrew  Marvell 
furnished  songs,  a  pastoral  in  which  Oliver  was  in- 
troduced as  Menaicas,  and  a  dialogue  between  Endymion 
and  Cynthia,  representing  the  bridegroom  and  the 
bride.  Modest  as  were  Cromwell's  ways  of  private 
living,  in  State  ceremonial,  as  Protector  of  England,  he 
could  be  magnificent.^  Although  Mrs  Mary  Netheway 
implored  that  the  bronze  statues  of  Venus  and  Cleopatra 
and  the  marble  statues  of  Adonis  and  Apollo  in  the 
garden  at  Hampton  Court,  "  monsters  which  are  set 
up  in  Privy  Gardens,"  might  be  demolished,  there  the 
monsters  remained.  But  the  strife  of  parties  during 
the  Commonwealth  made  it  inevitable  that  the  graver 
mind  of  England  should  in  the  main  occupy  itself  with 
practical  work  of  immediate  importance.  Theological 
folios   and    political    pamphlets    may   now   slumber   on 

1  See  Mr  Frith's  article,  "The  Court  of  Cromwell,"  in  the  Cornhill 
Magazine,  Sept.  1897  ;  and  Mr  St  Loe  Straehey's  "From  Grave  to  Gay," 
pp.  152,  153. 


26        Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

dusty  shelves,  but  some  of  these  in  their  day  were 
instinct  with  fire  ;  they  were  living  forces  helping  to 
form  character,  to  regulate  conduct,  to  shape  public 
action.  If  few  of  them  deserve  the  name  of  literature, 
they  yet  stirred  the  soil  from  which  a  literature  might 
have  sprung.  And  certain  works  remain  to  us  which 
serve  as  more  than  an  indication  of  the  possibilities  of  a 
Puritan  literature.  We  have  the  impassioned  exhorta- 
tions of  "  The  Saints'  Rest "  ;  we  have  the  epic  of 
seventeenth-century  theology — the  poems  of  the  loss  of 
Paradise  by  man  and  its  recovery  by  a  greater  Man  ; 
we  have  the  Puritan  drama  of  God's  afflicted  champion 
obtaining  victory  by  obedience  unto  death ;  we  have 
the  story,  ardent,  tender,  humorous,  of  the  Pilgrims* 
wayfaring  from  the  City  of  Destruction  to  the  Celestial 
City.  And  what  else  in  the  literature  of  the  period 
can  outweigh  these  gifts  of  Puritan  passion  and  Puritan 
faith  ? 


In  the  Puritan  inwardness  of  spirit,  in  its  vivid 
realisation  of  the  unseen,  if  only  these  could  find  a 
suitable  medium  of  representation  and  vehicle  of  ex- 
pression, lay  important  possibilities  for  literature.  If 
Hellenism  served  to  broaden,  Hebraism  served  to  deepen 
the  national  consciousness  of  England.  The  inward 
drama  of  the  spiritual  life  became  more  tragically 
earnest  ;  its  lyrical  cries  of  hope  and  fear,  of  anguish 
and  joy,  became  more  poignant.  God  and  the  soul 
were  the  chief  actors  in  the  drama,  but  for  the  Puritan 
imagination  a  world  of  magic  lay  around   the  human 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature         27 

soul — blessed  angels,  demons  of  the  pit,  special  inter- 
positions of  Providence,  miraculous  words  of  Scripture, 
preternatural  voices  echoing  in  the  heart.  In  the 
introspective  habit  which  scrutinised  and  searched  the 
soul  lor  intimations  of  loss  or  gain  there  were  grave 
dangers  ;  it  might  pass  into  a  diseased  fascination  ;  but 
it  might  also  be  a  great  discipline  ;  it  might  discover 
a  world  of  marvellous  phenomena  hidden  from  those 
accustomed  only  to  turn  the  eye  outward  on  the  world 
of  action. 

Again,  in  the  doctrine  of  Puritanism  was  a  body  of 
inspiring  ideas,  an  inspiring  conception  of  the  life  of 
man,  which  humbled  and  at  the  same  time  exalted. 
He  was  the  creature  of  a  passing  moment,  yet  a  spirit 
moving  in  a  world  at  present  only  realised  in  part 
and  formed  for  eternity.  Already  his  destiny  was 
sealed,  yet — appalling  mystery — free  and  responsible, 
he  became  his  own  doomsman.  As  this  conception  was 
made  real  and  living,  human  existence — the  existence 
even  of  the  meanest  child  of  earth — grew  in  dignity, 
since  to  it  belonged  the  most  awful,  the  most  blessed 
issues.  Our  threescore  years  and  ten — an  atom  in 
eternity —  acquired  a  grandeur  as  the  moment  of  a 
solemn  test  and  trial.  Everything  that  seems  to  care- 
less eyes  trivial  and  accidental  was  in  truth  part  of 
a  divine  order ;  but  this  order  included  the  sudden 
interventions  of  the  law-maker.  Man,  mysteriously 
endowed  with  free  will,  was  no  estray  wandering  in  a 
realm  of  chance ;  rather  was  he  a  subject,  loyal  or 
disloyal,  of  a  stern  and  beneficent  Ruler.  He  had  his 
appointed  station  in  a  vast  warfare,  his  appointed  place 


2  8         Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

in  a  mighty  scheme.  Fallen,  indeed,  he  was,  bound 
under  sin  by  the  transgression  of  our  first  parents,  con- 
demned by  the  law,  a  defaulter  under  the  covenant  of 
works  ;  but  a  door  of  escape,  a  radiant  avenue  of  hope, 
had  been  opened  under  a  covenant  of  grace.  Through 
disobedience  Adam  fell :  through  perfect  obedience  to 
the  divine  will  a  way  of  salvation  had  been  wrought 
out.  In  these  ideas,  not  all  peculiar  to  Puritanism,  but 
realised  by  the  Puritan  temper  with  peculiar  intensity, 
Milton  found  the  themes  for  his  epic  of  the  Fall  and  his 
epic  of  Piedemptiou.  They  were  no  mere  part  of  a 
theological  system ;  they  entered  profoundly  into  life 
and  into  literature. 

But  obedience  and  loyalty  to  the  divine  will  does  not 
consist  solely  in  passive  submission  ;  they  breathe  forth 
or  flame  forth  in  an  active  co-operancy  with  that  will. 
One  who  has  himself  become  a  part  of  the  heavenly 
order  in  the  world  cannot  but  seek  to  extend  that  order 
into  regions  not  yet  reclaimed.  And  this  he  may  strive 
to  do  in  either  of  two  ways — by  appeals  to  the  indi- 
vidual souls  of  men,  or  by  action  in  the  social  and 
political  sphere.  Hence  arose  a  literature  of  passionate 
exhortation,  the  pleadings  of  the  preachers  ;  hence  also 
arose  the  zeal  and  energy  of  public  reform,  which  in 
literature  found  expression  in  such  works  as  the  prose 
writings  of  Milton.  Of  the  hortatory  literature,  in 
which  meditation  passes  naturally  into  appeal,  "  The 
Saints'  Rest "  is  a  conspicuous  example.  It  was  written, 
as  Baxter  himself  tells  us,  for  his  own  use,  in  the  time 
of  his  languishment,  when  God  took  him  from  all  pub- 
lic employment.      He  was  ill,  and  alone  in  the  country, 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature         29 

given  over  by  the  physicians  to  death.  ''  I  began,"  he 
writes,  "  to  contemplate  more  seriously  the  everlasting 
rest,  which  I  apprehended  myself  to  be  on  the  borders 
of."  "  To  despise  earth,"  he  said,  "  is  easy  to  me,  but 
not  so  easy  to  be  acquainted  and  conversant  in  heaven."  ^ 
But  it  was  impossible  for  Baxter  to  meditate  for  himself 
alone  ;  he  was  nothing  if  not  a  preacher,  and  he  preached 
from  what  he  believed  to  be  his  dying  solitude.  He 
pleads  with  men  as  if  tears  were  in  his  voice.  In  the 
"  Epistle  to  the  Reader  "  prefixed  to  his  ''  Poetical  Frag- 
ments "  (1681),  Baxter  justifies  passion  and  sense  against 
the  invasion  of  Rationalism,  which  already  was  openino- 
a  way  for  the  spirit  of  the  eighteenth  century  : 

"  I  am  assured  that  God  made  not  passion  in  vain  ; 
and  that  reason  is  a  sleepy,  half-useless  thing,  till  some 
passion  excite  it.  ...  I  confess,  when  God  awakeneth 
in  me  those  passions  which  I  account  rational  and  holy, 
I  am  so  far  from  condemning  them,  that  I  think  I  was 
half  a  fool  before,  and  have  small  comfort  in  sleepy 
reason.  Lay  by  all  the  passionate  part  of  love  and  joy, 
and  it  will  be  hard  to  have  any  pleasant  thoughts  of 
Heaven.  In  short,  I  am  an  enemy  of  their  philosophy 
that  vilify  sense.  .  .  .  The  Scripture  that  saith  of  God 
that  He  is  life  and  light,  saith  also  that  He  is  love,  and 
love  is  complacence,  and  complacence  is  joy ;  and  to  say 
God  is  infinite,  essential  love  and  joy  is  a  better  notion 
than,  with   Cartesians  and  Cocceians,  to  say  that  God 

^  These  words  must  have  been  in  "Wordsworth's  mind  when  he  wrote 
in  "The  Excm-sion,"  Book  IV.  : 

"  'Tis,  by  comparison,  an  easy  task 
Earth  to  despise  ;  but  to  converse  with  heaven — 
This  is  not  easy. " 


30         Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

and  angels  and  spirits  are  but  a  thought  or  an   idea. 
What  is  Heaven  to  us  if  there  be  no  love  and  joy  ? " 

The  Epistle  from  which  these  words  are  quoted  is 
solemnly  dated  "London,  at  the  Door  of  Eternity." 
^  For  the  maintenance  of  high  passion  the  habit  of 
moral  restraint  is  in  the  long  run  more  favourable  than 
the  habit  of  moral  relaxation.  It  may  take  the  lifetime 
of  a  whole  generation  to  produce  the  consequences  in 
literature  and  art  of  base  morals,  but  no  law  is  more 
inevitable  than  that  what  is  sown  must  in  due  time  be 
reaped.  The  worst  effect  of  a  corrupt  society  upon 
literature  is  not,  perhaps,  the  deadness  of  the  senses  to 
what  is  gross  and  repulsive  ;  this  indeed  comes  gradually 
and  inevitably,  but  the  odour  of  the  sink  warns  off  any 
passer-by  who  has  breathed  clean  air.  Far  more  danger- 
ous is  the  false  homage  of  baseness  to  a  virtue  which,  in 
the  deadness  of  true  passion,  it  has  lost  the  very  power 
of  conceiving  aright  ;  the  substitution  of  factitious, 
romantic,  overstrained  heroics  for  tlie  plain  and  modest 
realities  of  righteous  living.  It  is  not  the  facile  licen- 
tiousness of  the  plays  of  Fletcher  that  chiefly  offends  a 
reader  ;  the  lascivious  imagination  of  puberty,  it  is  true, 
in  the  lapse  of  time  will  necessarily  lose  its  gay  colours 
and  youthful  vivacity,  and  will  sink  into  the  cynical 
brutality  of  Wycherle}^  But  we  are  more  offended  by 
the  spurious  moral  ideality  of  Fletcher,  by  his  fantastic 
code  of  heroism,  his  extravagant  gallantries,  his  indecent 
celebration  of  chastity.  And  Fletcher's  spurious  ideality 
prepared  the  way  for  the  high-pitched  heroics  of  certain 
Restoration  dramas.  The  one  indicates  the  decline,  the 
other   indicates   the    death    of  genuine    passion.       The 


Puritanism  and  English  Literature         3 1 

Puritan  regard  for  righteousness  in  its  lower  forms  was 
injurious  to  literature  and  art  as  inducing  a  dull  didactic 
tendency.  Wither  has  shown  how  it  is  possible  to  be 
exceedingly  moral  and  excessively  dull  during  many 
pages.  In  its  higher  forms  the  passion  for  righteous- 
ness tempers  an  instrument  for  breathing  music  of  the 
Dorian  mode.  It  was  the  great  Puritan  poet  who  wrote 
those  well-known  words,  which,  if  rightly  interpreted, 
convey  an  ascertained  law  of  art  : 

*'  I  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion  that  he  who  would 
not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in 
laudable  things  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem  ;  that 
is,  a  composition  and  pattern  of  the  best  and  honourablest 
things  ;  not  presuming  to  sing  high  praises  of  heroic  men 
or  famous  cities,  unless  he  have  in  himself  the  experience 
and  the  practice  of  all  that  which  is  praiseworthy." 

Milton  does  not  mean  that  great  art  will  be,  in  the 
common  meaning  of  the  word,  didactic  art.  He  means 
that  heroic  music  can  be  adequately  breathed  only 
through  a  noble  instrument.  He  means  that  there  is 
a  music  which  teaches  nothing,  but  by  its  very  tones 
can  "  raise  to  height  of  noblest  temper,"  can  "  breathe 
deliberate  valour,"  can  "  mitigate  and  swage  with 
solemn  touches  troubled  thoughts,"  and  that  the 
faculty  for  producing  such  music  diminishes  in  pro- 
portion to.  the  loss  of  such  noblest  temper  by  the 
musician  himself.  In  a  corrupt  society  the  art  of  the 
Dorian  and  the  Phrygian  modes  is  lost,  or  is  heard 
only  from  some  survivor  of  a  more  strenuous  age. 
And  when  they  are  lost  art  recovers  itself  commonly, 
not  by  a  great  enthusiasm,  but  by  good  sense,  modera- 


32         Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

tion,  and   those  common  decencies  which  are  found  to 
be  needful  for  the  very  existence  of  human  society. 

Among  the  factors  determining  the  character  of  a 
Puritan  literature  must  be  reckoned  the  popular 
sympathies  which  informed  the  movement  for  ecclesi- 
astical and  civil  reform.  Milton,  indeed,  its  chief 
representative — although  he,  like  Hooker,  would  de- 
rive all  political  authority  from  the  consent  of  the 
people — was  essentially  aristocratical  in  his  intellect, 
and  became  the  advocate  of  an  oligarchy  not  of  birth 
but  of  merit.  He  honoured  heroic  individuals,  a 
Christ  in  the  wilderness,  a  Samson  in  captivity,  a 
Fairfax  at  the  siege,  a  Cromwell  in  the  council  and 
in  the  field ;  he  could  speak  more  scornfully  than 
Burke  ever  spoke  of  the  wayward  and  variable  mu.lti- 
tude.  But,  in  a  large  way,  Puritanism  was  a  move- 
ment of  the  people,  with  not  a  few  leaders  from 
among  the  aristocracy.  For  a  time  its  temper  was 
high  and  courageous,  hopeful  and  even  audacious  in 
new  experiments.  Its  religious  spirit  tended  to 
abolish  or  to  abate  social  distinctions  :  all  mortal 
men  were  alike  sinners  before  God,  and,  peer  or 
peasant,  if  true  members  of  the  congregation,  were 
equally  saints.  Its  favoured  ecclesiastical  schemes 
and  platforms  were  of  a  democratic  kind.  Its  politi- 
cal ideal  was  not  a  loose  and  incoherent  democracy ; 
it  aimed  at  vigour  in  government,  and  was  willing  to 
confer  immense  powers  upon  chosen  individuals ;  but 
its  political  culmination  was  a  Republic.  A  literature 
informed  by  popular  sympathies  may  lose  much  that 
is   of  high    worth ;    it   may,   on    the   other   hand,   gain 


Puritanisrn  and  English  Literature         2)Z 

some  things — a  homely  strength,  a  genial  warmth,  a 
respect  for  man  as  man,  a  breadth  of  human  interest, 
a  humour  that  is  not  supercilious,  a  pity  which  is  not 
condescending.  Some  of  these  qualities  are  manifest 
in  both  Parts,  perhaps  especially  in  the  Second  Part, 
of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 

With  these  various  possibilities  for  literature,  Puritan- 
ism still  felt  the  difficulty  of  mediating,  as  art  should 
mediate,  between  the  spiritual  and  the  material,  the 
difficulty  of  finding  an  imaginative  body  for  theological 
dogma  and  the  deepest  experiences  of  the  soul.  It 
was  partly  solved  by  Milton  with  the  aid  of  an  ima- 
gination educated  among  classical  models.  The  influ- 
ence of  the  Renaissance  came  to  aid  him  in  his  dealing 
with  the  Puritan  abstractions.  But  the  solution  was 
not  absolutely  successful.  There  is  still  a  portion  of 
theological  doctrine  in  "  Paradise  Lost "  which  is  not 
vitalised  for  the  imagination,  and  remains  doctrinaire. 
It  is  true  that  God  the  Father  and  His  Son  discuss 
the  scheme  of  salvation  too  much  in  the  manner  of 
school-divines.  The  Hebraic  ideas  and  the  classical^ 
garb  do  not  always  perfectly  correspond  each  with  the ) 
other.  We  cannot  assert  that  Milton  entirely  succeeded 
in  finding  an  imaginative  vehicle  to  convey  his  Puritan 
conceptions.  Bunyan,  perhaps,  succeeded  better;  but 
in  allegory  the  idea  has  a  certain  detachment  from  its 
body  of  sense  ;  it  dwells  within,  but  it  is  never  indis- 
solubly  incorporated.  In  prose  Bunyan  could  drop 
more  easily  than  Milton  could  in  his  verse  from  narra- 
tive to  the  exposition  of  doctrine.  The  pilgrims  in 
their    talk   by    the    way   are   as   frankly   theological    or 

c 


34        Puritanism  and  English  Literature 

hortatory  as  if  they  were  worthy  Nonconformists  of  real 
life  crossing  the  fields  from  Elstow  to  Bedford.  Bunyan, 
as  compared  with  Milton,  had  no  slight  artistic  advan- 
tage in  the  fact  that  his  starting-point  was  a  personal 
experience.  What  he  beheld  in  vision  he  had  known 
in  a  cruder  form  as  a  fragment  of  actual  life.  Perhaps 
it  was  also  an  advantage  that,  being  unlearned  in  the 
culture  of  Greece  and  Eome,  he  drew  no  robe  of  Hellen- 
ism around  his  Hebraic  ideas.  The  "  Pilgrim's  Progress" 
is  derived  from  only  one  of  the  two  antiquities  ;  it  is  the 
prose-epic  of  English  Hebraism. 


SIR    THOMAS    BEOWXE 


*' All  divinity/'  writes  Donne  in  one  of  his  poems, 
''  is  love  or  wonder."  If  we  accept  Donne's  definition 
we  must  think  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne  as  amonsf  the 
greatest  of  •  English  divines.  Contemplative  charity  ; 
illuminated  wonder  —  these  w^ere  his  possessions,  or 
rather  by  these  he  was  possessed.  With  nothing 
unsocial  or  inhospitable  in  his  disposition,  these  made 
him  in  his  best  moments  a  solitary — Thomas  Browne, 
''  the  only  one."  In  an  age  of  violence  and  strife,  he 
moved  serenely,  or  abode  in  the  cloudy  tabernacle  of 
his  own  mind.  In  an  age  when  religious  ceremonial 
w^as  strenuously  enforced  for  the  sake  of  uniformity,  he 
valued  ceremony — of  diverse  kinds — for  its  emotional 
or  imaginative  suggestions.  In  an  age  when  dogma 
hardened  into  systems,  and  the  sense  of  mystery  de- 
parted, as  all  truth  was  made  definite  in  schemes  and 
plans  dovetailed  together  from  Scripture  by  the  school- 
men of  Protestantism,  he  gazed  into  what  Bishop 
Berkeley  described  as  the  arcane  part  of  divine  wisdom, 
and  amid  the  humblest  circumstance  of  our  daily  lives 
he  discovered  something  shadowy  and  arcane.  While 
others  were  alarmed  by  the  terrors  of  religion,  he  was 
rapt  by  its  harmonies  of  beauty  and  of  wonder. 

In   the   affairs   of   state   Browne's    sympathies    were 


36  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

with  the  Royalist  cause ;  in  matters  ecclesiastical  he 
professed  himself  a  loyal  son  of  the  English  Church. 
Yet  in  truth  he  stands  somewhat  apart  from  the  move- 
ments of  his  own  day.  Or  if  we  are  to  connect  him 
with  any  of  the  public  interests  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  it  must  be  with  the  research  for  scientific 
truth.  The  great  scientific  movement  of  the  period 
which  followed  the  Restoration  was  in  the  hands  of 
a  younger  generation  than  that  of  Browne.  His 
position  was  between  the  old  view  of  the  world  and 
the  new.  The  fabulous  natural  history,  the  popular 
folk-lore,  the  fictions  of  geographical  speculation,  the 
mediaeval  legends  preserved  in  pictures,  the  strange 
Rabbinical  interpretations  of  Scripture  interested  his 
imagination  ;  they  had  the  support  of  antiquity  and 
of  authority  ;  they  led  him  into  a  curious  labyrinth  ; 
they  made  him,  as  he  says,  a  wanderer  in  "  the  America 
and  untravelled  parts  of  truth  "  ;  and  such  wanderings 
in  the  virgin  continent  pleased  him.  He  could  in- 
dulge a  scholarly  scepticism  without  any  apprehension 
that  in  exposing  popular  errors  he  was  diminishing 
his  territory  of  wonder.  To  explode  a  vulgar  delusion 
was  only  to  open  an  avenue  for  some  finer  apparition 
of  the  marvellous.  His  imaginative  faith  discovered 
imder  every  roof  of  Norwich  and  in  his  own  soul 
mysteries  more  moving  than  the  legends  of  the 
basilisk,   the   phoenix,   and    the    mandrake. 

Apart  from  the  confessions  and  betrayals  of  his 
mind,  we  can  form  some  acquaintance  with  Browne  and 
his  surroundings.  His  life  extended  from  1605,  the 
year  of  the  Gunpow^der   Plot,  to  the  year  1682,  when 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  2i7 

Monmouth  made  bis  popular  progress  and  Shaftesbury 
retired  to  Holland.  It  was,  amid  all  the  national 
struggle,  a  scholar's  life  of  tranquillity  ;  when  Fairfax 
advanced  to  Oxford,  and  the  King  quitted  the  city 
in  disguise  to  place  himself  in  the  hands  of  the 
Scottish  commissioners,  Browne  published  his  folio 
on  Vulgar  Errors  ;  in  the  year  of  the  Protector's  death, 
when  dangers  threatened  and  the  army  plotted  against 
his  feeble  successor,  Browne  was  discoursing  on  the 
sepulchral  urns  lately  found  in  Norfolk,  and  on  the 
quincuncial  plantations  of  the  ancients.  By  birth 
a  Londoner,  he  became  an  Oxford  student,  accompanied 
his  stepfather  to  Ireland  on  a  visitation  of  military 
defences,  travelled  in  France  and  Italy,  resided  for 
a  time  at  Montpellier  and  again  at  Padua,  returned 
through  Holland,  and  received  his  doctorate  of  medi- 
cine at  Leyden.  The  "  Religio  Medici  "  was  surrepti- 
tiously published  when  he  was  thirty-seven,  and 
Browne  became  famous.  At  Xorwich  he  practised 
medicine  during  upwards  of  forty  years;  in  1641 
he  married  a  lady  of  good  family,  and  "  of  such 
symmetrical  proportion  to  her  w^orthy  husband,"  writes 
his  friend  Whitefoot,  ''  both  in  the  graces  of  her 
body  and  mind,  that  they  seemed  to  come  together 
by  a  kind  of  natural  magnetism."  With  her  he 
lived  happily  for  forty-one  years ;  she  bore  him  twelve 
children,  of  w^hom  four  survived  their  parents.  Browne 
was  the  friend  of  John  Evelyn,  Sir  William  Dugdale, 
and  other  distinguished  persons  whose  interest  in 
science  or  in  antiquities  drew  them  towards  him.  In 
1671    he    was    knighted    at   Norwich   by    Charles    II. 


38  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

Eleven   years  later,    after   a   short    illness,    he    died    oi:i 
his  seventy-seventh   birthday. 

Some  minutes  for  Browne's  life  were  set  down  at  the 
request  of  his  widow  by  his  friend  Whitefoot,  the  rector 
of    Heigham.      His    complexion,    and    the    hair,    which 
fell  curling  upon   his  shoulders,   were,   says   Whitefoot,. 
"  answerable  to  his  name "  ;  the   hair  was  still  auburn 
when  in  1840  the  coffin-lid  was  accidentally  broken  by 
the  pick-axe  of  a  workman  in  St  Peter  Mancroft.      He 
was  of  moderate   stature,   neither  meagre   nor   of   dis- 
proportioned    bulk.      In    dress     he     studied    simplicity. 
He   was   by   the   habit  of  his   mind  introspective — "  a* 
singular  observer  of  everything  that  belonged  to  him- 
self"; yet  at  the  same  time   he  loved   to   explore  for 
curious    knowledge    all    the   visible    universe    and    the 
world  of  books,  eagerly  observed  the  stars,  had  a  most 
exact    acquaintance    with  the  geography   of  the  globe,. 
and  was  a  student  of  plants  and  flowers.      Evelyn  visited 
Norwich    on    the    occasion   when    Browne    received   the 
honour  of  knighthood  ;  he  found   the  physician's  house 
and  garden  ''a  paradise  and  cabinet  of  rarities,"  chosen 
with  good  judgment,  "  especially  medals,  books,  plants,, 
and    natural   things."      So   Browne  balanced   his  intro- 
spective   tendency  with   the   study    of  nature    and    the 
world    of   past    generations    of    mankind  ;    indeed    his- 
scrutiny  of  the  world  of  his   own   mind,  the   microcosm 
within,  was  a  kind  of  objective  observation ;  he  explored 
his  spirit  as  a  singular  fragment  of  nature,  finding  there- 
the  choicest  rarities  to  add  to  his  collection.      Except  in 
the  passion  of  contemplation,  the  soaring  or  sinking  in 
his   meditative   rapture,  he  knew  no  great  disturbances. 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  39 

of  mood.  "  He  had,"  Whitefoot  tells  us,  ''no  despotical 
power  over  his  affections  and  passions  .  .  .  but  as 
large  a  political  poAver  over  them  as  any  stoick  or  man 
of  his  time.  The  strongest  that  were  found  in  him, 
both  of  the  irascible  and  concupiscible,  were  under  the 
control  of  reason."  The  face  familiar  to  us  in  the 
portrait  of  the  Bodleian  confirms  his  friend's  statement ; 
its  dominant  expression  is  that  of  a  calm  and  sweet 
reflectiveness.  "  Of  admiration,"  says  Whitefoot,  and 
the  word  includes  the  idea  of  wonder,  '\  .  .  he  had 
more,  and  less,  than  other  men,  upon  the  same  account 
of  his  knowing  more  than  others  ;  so  that,  though  he 
met  with  many  rarities,  he  admired  them  not  so  much 
as  others  do."  Browne's  faculty  of  imaginative  wonder 
did,  in  fact,  not  cling  to  material  objects  ;  a  curiosity  in 
his  collection  was  in  itself  of  small  account ;  it  was 
precious  chiefly  as  the  starting-point  of  that  sense  of 
mystery  which  soon  wandered  forth  on  a  flight  of  its 
own.  He  was  never  seen  to  be  transported  with  mirth 
or  dejected  with  sadness ;  but  a  sensitive  delicacy  of 
feeling  brought  ever  and  anon  a  blush  to  his  face  like 
that  of  youth.  His  friend  proceeds  to  speak  of  Sir 
-Thomas  Browne's  liberality  in  everything  except  his 
time,  of  his  devotion  to  study,  of  his  acquaintance  with 
classical  and  modern  authors  :  ''  he  was  excellent  com- 
pany when  he  was  at  leisure,  and  expressed  more  light 
than  heat  in  the  temper  of  his  brain."  He  could  not 
be'  eager  in  dispute,  when  he  gazed  through  the  matters 
of  controversy  to  something  beyond  them  and  remote, 
where  all  contention  was  lost  in  contemplative  quietude 
or  contemplative  awe. 


40  Sir  Tho7nas  Browne 

If  we  knew  Sir  Thomas  Browne  only  through  his 
solitary  musings  and  his  ingenuities  of  learning  we 
might  wonder  what  manner  of  man  this  hermit  spirit 
was  in  his  home  and  among  his  children.  Happily  a 
considerable  number  of  his  letters  remains  with  us.  No 
one  was  a  truer  father  and  friend  to  his  sons  and 
daughters.  Edward  Browne,  the  elder  of  two  sons 
whom  we  meet  in  the  correspondence,  followed  liis 
father's  profession,  and  like  his  father  travelled  over 
Europe.  He  had  inherited  or  acquired  a  curiosity  for 
various  knowledge,  in  some  respects  like  that  of  the 
elder  Browne ;  the  element  of  genius,  the  passion  of 
contemplation  was  not  transmitted  to  the  son.  A 
perfect  friendship  existed  between  the  old  and  the 
young  physician.  On  his  continental  wanderings 
Edward  Browne  wrote  frequently  to  Norwich,  giving 
his  father  such  remarkable  scraps  of  information  as 
he  knew  would  be  welcome,  and  assuring  the  modest 
student  of  an  English  provincial  city  that  his  fame 
was  great  throughout  Europe.  The  information  was  in 
general  connected  with  science  or  with  scholarshijD,  but, 
knowing  as  he  did,  Sir  Thomas's  mingled  credulity  and 
scepticism,  he  sometimes  ventured  to  report,  in  a  spirit 
of  doubt,  certain  supernatural  marvels.  He  has  been 
assured  that  the  great  sorceress  of  Bohemia,  Libussa, 
had  foretold  many  things  concerning  the  mines  of 
Cottenberg,  but  for  his  own  part  he  believes  little  in 
such  matters.  "  In  the  mines  of  Brunswick  is  reported 
to  be  a  spirit ;  and  another  at  the  tin  mine  at  Slacken- 
wald  in  the  shape  of  a  monk,  which  strikes  the  miners, 
singeth,  playeth  on  the  bagpipe,  and  many  such  tricks. 


Sir  Thomas  Browjie  41 

But  I  doubt  if  I  go  thither  I  should  find  them  as  vain 
as  Montparion's  drum."  When  Edward  Browne,  dis- 
tinguished as  a  London  physician,  delivered  medical 
lectures  at  Surgeons'  Hall,  his  father  gladly  advised 
and  assisted  him ;  his  sister  Betty,  who  was  skilled 
with  her  pencil,  made  drawings  of  the  kidney  and 
heart  of  a  vitidus  raarinus  or  seal ;  Dame  Dorothy, 
his  mother,  considerate  of  creature  comforts,  sent  him 
the  receipt  for  orange  cakes.  Sir  Thomas  cautions 
his  son  against  the  error  of  undue  modesty,  the  error  of 
hiding  his  talents  ;  exhorts  him  to  take  with  him  to 
church  a  Greek  Testament  or  the  Septuagint,  so  that 
he  may  learn  two  good  things  together ;  and  on  the 
occasion  of  his  marriage  recommends  a  wise  frugality,  a 
prudent  disposal  of  his  money,  the  choice  of  a  good 
house,  and  of  apparel  moderately  rich. 

The  second  boy,  named  after  his  father,  was  all  that 
a  gallant  English  boy  should  be.  Had  he  lived,  he 
might  have  been  one  of  England's  great  sea-captains, 
for  assuredly  he  was  of  the  same  breed  as  theirs.  Did 
he  inherit  his  joy  in  action  from  Dame  Dorothy  Browne? 
Entirely  unlike  his  father  in  temperament  as  he  was, 
the  relations  between  the  two  were  delightful  in  their 
cordiality.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  young  Thomas 
Browne  w^as  so  far  trusted  to  his  own  care  that  he 
travelled  in  France  without  a  companion  or  attendant. 
He  entered  the  Royal  Navy  in  1664,  took  part  in  the 
Dutch  w^ar,  and  received  such  commendations  for  his 
courage,  skill,  and  generous  temper  as  highly  delighted 
his  father.  He  thought  lovingly  of  the  Norwich 
household,  and  was  careful  that  his  old  pensioner,  John 


42  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

More,    a    scavenger    and    a    centenarian,    received    his 

weekly  allowance.      He  was  all  on  fire  when  a  "  grand 

action "    was   in    prospect,   longing   extremely   for   that 

thundering   day.       ''  It   is    impossible,"   he    writes,   "  to 

express  unto  another  how  a  smart  sea-fight  elevates  the 

spirits  of  a  man,  and  makes  him  despise  all  dangers." 

At  Bergen  the  dying  gunner  Blanchot  left  his  boy  in 

Browne's   care,  and   great  was  his  joy  on   obtaining  a 

pension  for  Will.      His  own  pieces  of  eight  were  always 

ready  for  the  aid  of  sailors  whose  pay  was   in  arrears. 

''While  I  have  a  penny  I  cannot  but  relieve  them  of 

whose  fidelity  and  valour  I  can  give  so  good  testimonie." 

His  father  writes  to   "  honest   Tom "  w^ith  an  exultant 

pride  :    ''  God  hath  given  you  a  stout  but  a  generous 

and    merciful   heart    withal,  and    in   all   your   life    you 

could    never   behold    any   person    in    misery    but    with 

compassion    and    relief;    which    hath    been   notable   in 

you  from  a  child."      The  heroic  lad  was  like  his  father 

a    lover    of    learned    studies.       He    read    the    "  noble 

straynes "    of   Lucan    while   his    ship    lay   in    Plymouth 

Sound.      It  pleased  his  father  that  Tom  was  "  not  only 

Marti  but  Mercurio,"  and  had  found  time  at  sea  not 

only  to  practise   his   violin   and   his   foils,   but  to  read 

divers    books,    especially    "  Homer    and    Juvenal    with 

Lubine's  notes."      The  only  danger  the  elderly  physician 

feared  was  from  his  boy's  desperate  courage.      He  had 

instructed  his  young  navigator  in  Aristotle's  definition 

of  fortitude  ;   lahorare  is  well,  but  tolerare  is  no  less  a 

duty.       Tom    should    consider    the    arguments    against 

blowing  up  his  ship  and  her  crew  in  extremity  ;  to  be 

made  prisoner   at   overpowering   odds   is   no  disparage- 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  43 

ment ;  let  him  remember  the  examples  thereof,  even  of 
the  worthier  commanders,  in  his  beloved  Plutarch.  In 
the  summer  of  1667  the  name  of  young  Thomas 
Browne  disappears  from  the  household  chronicles,  and 
from  a  later  letter  we  learn  that  his  gallantry  and 
generosity  had  passed  away  from  earth.  Another  Tom 
— the  son  of  Edward  Browne — "  little  Tommy,"  came 
to  cheer  his  grandfather's  elder  days.  Like  a  good 
boy  he  chose  Dame  Dorothy  and  his  Aunt  Betty  for 
valentines ;  he  came  home  laden  with  presents  from 
the  fair  ;  sometimes  he  was  taken  to  see  a  play ;  and  if 
''  begging  books  and  reading  of  them  "  is  a  promise  of 
scholarship,  Tom  gave  early  pledges  that  he  would  be  a 
man  of  learning.  The  records  of  a  happy  home,  over 
which  the  wisdom  and  gracious  temper  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  presided,  are  of  worth  as  throwing  light  upon 
his  character  ;  his  curious  erudition  and  retired  specula- 
tions did  not  sequester  him  from  the  beloved  humanities 
of  the  hearth. 

II 

The  Religio  Medici  w^as  written  about  1635,  when 
Browne,  having  returned  from  his  continental  wander- 
ings, was  living  near  Halifax,  before  he  settled  at 
Norwich.  It  was  not  intended  for  publication,  being 
a  "  private  exercise,"  a  monologue  directed  to  himself 
He  wrote  with  what  seemed  to  him  the  disadvantage  of 
absence  from  a  library,  and  hence  the  book  is  rather  a 
meditative  overflow  than  like  other  writings  of  Browne, 
a  piece  of  architectural  construction  into  which  the 
marble,  brick,  and  rubble   of  erudition   are   laboriousl3r 


44  ^^^  Thomas  Browne 

built.  Browne  did  not  aim  at  defining  and  establishing 
a  four-square  system  of  theolog}^ ;  there  were  theological 
systems  enough,  and  more  than  enough ;  nor  did  he 
plead  with  the  soul  and  seek  to  incite  new  fervours  of 
piety.  The  ''  Religio  Medici  "  is  rather  of  the  nature  of 
a  philosophic  poem,  the  expression  of  an  unique  mind 
and  its  musical  moods,  a  mind  occupied  with  itself,  and 
with  external  things  as  beheld  in  its  own  magic  mirror, 
a  series  of  lyrical  confessions,  in  which  philosophy  is 
quickened  by  being  made  personal,  and  what  is  personal 
is  refined  and  clarified  by  the  infusion  of  philosophical 
ideas.  As  a  transcript  from  its  author's  spirit  at  the 
age  of  thirty,  it  must  not  be  taken  in  a  literal  sense ; 
he  plays  around  his  own  mind,  and  discerning  a  germ 
of  feeling  here,  a  suggestion  of  thought  there,  he 
develops  these  and  refashions  the  whole  substance  of 
his  being  in  an  ideal  mould.  In  a  period  of  religious 
excitement  he  discourses  on  religious  subjects  in  a 
luminous  serenity ;  he  is  free  from  such  personal  terrors, 
such  spasms  of  fear,  such  cold  and  hot  fits  as  attacked 
Bunyan ;  sometimes  when  he  soars  in  his  flights  of 
imaginative  faith,  he  soars  so  smoothly  that  we  hardly 
discern  the  quiver  of  a  wing. 

Browne's  manuscript  pleased  the  friends  to  whom  it 
was  lent ;  transcripts  were  made,  and  from  one  of  these 
the  text  of  the  surreptitious  edition  of  1 642  was  obtained. 
In  the  following  year,  and  in  self-defence,  he  published  a 
^'true  and  full  copy."  A  book,  personal  and  intimate  in 
its  origin,  had  proved  to  be  of  interest  to  many  readers. 
In  truth,  he  had  elevated  the  personal  and  historical  self 
into  an  ideal  self;  he  had  made  this  self  the  centre  of 


Sir  Tho7nas  Browne  45 

his  universe  of  thought ;  he  had  not  pronounced  the 
ponderous  phrase,  "  relativity  of  human  knowledge,"  but 
he  had  found  in  a  purified  and  idealised  ego  the  inter- 
pretation of  all  things ;  the  microcosm  of  his  own  frame 
was  that  he  cast  his  eye  on  ;  as  for  the  macrocosm  of 
earth  and  planets  and  spheres,  "  I  use  it,"  he  says,  "  but 
like  my  globe,  and  turn  it  round  sometimes  for  my 
recreation."  The  essentials  of  his  faith  are  accepted  by 
him  on  the  authority  of  Scripture  and  of  the  Church  ; 
these  form  a  citadel  from  which  he  sallies  forth  on 
adventures  of  the  soul.  Even  as  regards  the  beliefs 
which  he  accepts  on  authority,  he  ranges  at  will,  above 
and  around  them,  gazing  into  their  mysteries  until  his 
imagination  and  his  feelings  are  kindled,  so  that  the 
statements  of  the  Bible  and  the  councils  are  for  him 
not_so_much  statements  as  living  powers,  instinct  with 
spiritual  fire  and  mysterious  light. 

When  Browne  wrote  his  "  Religio  Medici,"  Laud  was 
engaged  in  harrying  the  Puritan  clergy  ;  he  hoped  in 
the  end  to  secure  unity  within  the  Anglican  communion, 
and  the  first  step  towards  this  object  was  to  enforce  ex- 
ternal uniformity.  His  method  was  to  work  from  with- 
out inwards  ;  let  certain  postures  of  the  body  of  religion 
be  required  (at  the  cost,  if  need  be,  of  Christian  or  human 
charity)  and  the  soul  of  religion  will  by  degrees  adapt 
itself  to  those  postures.  The  "  five  busy  points  of  Ar- 
minius  "  occupied  the  minds  of  Churchmen  who  thought 
more  of  dogma  than  of  ceremony.  Both  the  High  Church 
and  the  Puritan  parties  stood  on  their  defence  against 
the  counter-Reformation  of  the  Roman  communion.  Amid 
these  coDflicts  there  was  a  certain  growing  liberality  of 


46  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

thought,  but  though  it  drew  its  lines  of  toleration  a  little 
wider  than  had  been  customary,  it  drew  them  in  the  same 
manner  of  hard  and  exact  precision.  Browne's  confession 
is  not  moulded  on  the  articles  of  a  creed,  but  is  far  more 
the  exposition  of  a  religious  temper  ;  it  concerns  itself 
with  the  Christian  graces  ;  the  first  Book  of  the  "  Religio 
Medici "  deals  with  Faith  and  the  Hope  which  attends  on 
Faith  ;  the  second  Book  considers  the  grace  of  Charity, 
and  indicates  certain  extensions  of  charity  little  thought 
of  in  his  own  day. 

As  to  ceremony,  to  which  a  spirit  so  humanly  catholic 
as  his  could  not  be  indifferent,  he  viewed  it  less  as  a 
symbolism  of  dogma  than  as  a  vehicle  of  religious  emo- 
tion. His  tolerance  was  a  form  not  of  intellectual 
comprehension  but  of  human  sympathy ;  through  the 
diversities  of  creeds  he  felt  rather  than  argued  his  way 
to  the  deep  communities  of  religious  sentiment.  He 
declares  himself  a  sworn  subject  of  the  Church  of 
England,  which,  with  its  temperate  wisdom  and  its 
seemly  ordinances  was,  as  it  were,  framed  to  his  par- 
ticular devotion ;  but  holy-water  and  crucifix,  ''  danger- 
ous to  the  common  people,"  did  not  disturb  his  piety. 
A  transcendentalist  may  be  a  ceremonialist,  but  he  can- 
not attach  supreme  importance  to  any  particular  set  of 
forms ;  wherever  the  spirit  dwells  in  form,  he  reads  the 
meaning  of  the  hieroglyph  ;  "  I  could  never  hear  an  Ave- 
Mary  bell  without  an  elevation  ;  ...  at  a  solemn  pro- 
cession I  have  wept  abimdantly."  The  common  satires 
and  invectives  of  the  pulpit  did  not  confirm  his  faith ; 
many  persons,  he  thought,  through  an  inconsiderate  zeal 
for  truth,  had   too  rashly  charged   the  troops  of  Error. 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  47 

He  had  learnt  by  his  own  experiences  that  unauthorised 
opinions  may  lodge  in  certain  brains  that  are  naturally 
framed  to  receive  them,  and  may  fade  away  if  they  are 
not  fixed  and  supported  by  opposition.      He  had  held, 
as  Milton  afterwards  held,  that  the  soul  perishes  with 
the  body,  to  be  miraculously  raised  with  it  at  the  last 
day;  it  was  an  opinion  natural  to  one  who,  as  a  phy- 
sician, reflected  much  on  the  intimate  connection  between 
what  is  spiritual  and  what  is  material  in  man.      He  had 
believed  in  the   final   salvation  of  all  men,  and   in  the 
lawfulness  of  prayers  for  the  dead  ;  if  these  were  heresies, 
they  were  the  indiscretions  of  charity,  and,  being  neither 
discussed  nor  defended,  they  had  passed  away  insensibly 
as  his  trust  in  the  Divine  wisdom  had  enlarged  its  bounds. 
As  for  the  deeper  mysteries  in  Divinity  and  ''airy  subtle- 
ties in  religion,"  his  mind  moved  among  them  as  in  its 
natural  element.     Argument  lapsed  away,  and  a  sacred 
awe  filled  his  spirit :   "  I  love  to  lose  myself  in  a  mystery, 
to  pursue  my  reason  to  an  0  altitudo  !  "     Miracles  were 
superfluous  for  his  faith  ;  he  rejoiced  that  he  believed 
and  saw  not.      He  loved  to  let  his  thoughts  play  at  the 
utmost  verge  of  human  speculation,  close  to  God's  abyss, 
and  if  they  threw  themselves  forward  with  closed  eyes, 
he  was  assured  that  some  angelical  powers  would  bear 
them  up  in  their  hands — Certuvi  est,  quia  impossible 
est.    Above  all,  he  stretched  and  confounded  his  intellect 
with  the  idea  of  God — a  circle  whose  centre  is  every- 
where and  circumference  nowhere  ;   he  brooded  on  the 
thought  of   God's  unsearchable  wisdom  and  incompre- 
hensible eternity — a  duration  which  is  *'one  permanent 
point,  without  succession,  parts,  flux,  or  division."      The 


48  Sir  Tho7nas  Brow7ie 

wisdom  of  the  Creator  he  sought  to  trace  particularly  in 

His  creatures— ^such  is  part  of  a  physician's  piety — and, 

seeing  in  the  visible  world  an  image  of  the  invisible,  he 

believed  that  in  the  study  of  nature  he  was  in  truth 

deciphering  the  supernatural : 

Give  Tliou  my  reason  that  instructive  flight, 
Whose  weary  wings  may  on  Thy  hands  still  light. 

Even  in  the  nineteenth  century  the  mystic  and  the 
man  of  science  may  be  united  ;  matter  may  disappear  in 
force  or  in  motion  ;  and  the  scientific  intellect  may  lose 
itself  in  the  darkness  or  the  light  of  the  unknown  cause 
of  motion.  In  Browne's  day,  with  cruder  conceptions 
of  science  and  a  mysticism  more  emotional  and  imagina- 
tive, the  combination  had  a  shimmer  of  colour  and  of 
fantastic  strangeness  that  has  passed  away. 

The  study  of  final  causes  may  be  discredited  by 
modern  science,  or  at  least  may  have  been  driven  to 
indirect  methods ;  it  was  especially  final  causes,  as 
leading  him  through  narrow  channels  to  the  ocean  of 
Divine  wisdom,  that  Browne,  as  he  says,  groped  after 
in  the  works  of  nature.  This  goodly  habitation,  the 
earth,  seemed  thus  to  grow  more  luminous  ;  what  was 
opaque  became  transparent ;  the  quaint  hieroglyphic  of 
the  forms  of  beast  and  reptile  and  plant  ceased  to  be 
merely  grotesque,  as  the  hidden  significance  of  each 
emerged  to  view  ;  what  w^as  most  trivial  to  the  eye  of 
sense  might  give  access  to  an  abyss  of  intellectual  light. 
The  flux  and  reflux  of  the  sea,  the  waning  and  increase 
of  the  Nile  produced  in  the  mind  of  Browne  no  deeper 
sensation  of  awe  than  did  the  skill  of  the  little  citizens 
of    a   hive.       Beauty    and    what    is   ignorantly   termed 


Sir  Thomas  Brow7ie  49 

deformity  alike  served  the  ends  of  the  supreme  Artist. 
Art  itself  is  only  the  perfection  of  nature,  and  nature, 
everywhere  significant  of  ideas,  is  no  other  than  the  art 
of  God. 

Seeking  in  all  directions  for  a  Divine  presence,  un- 
satisfied until  he  had  found  spirit  interpenetrating  the 
whole  framework  of  things,  and  filling  all  the  interstices 
of  existence,  Browne  loved  to  trace  out  the  meanders 
of  Providence  in  what  men  misname  fortune.  When 
the  faculties  of  man — intellect,  passions,  and  the  energies 
of  faith — are  justly  poised,  when  each  aids  the  others, 
it  is  not  difficult  to  commune  with  the  soul  of  things. 
When  we  are  ourselves  harmonical,  we  give  a  spon- 
taneous response  to  the  harmonies  of  the  world.  The 
essentials  of  a  spiritual  creed  naturally  evolve  them- 
selves from  a  spirit  at  one  with  itself,  while  many 
questions  merely  curious,  or  worthy  of  consideration, 
but  of  no  vital  import,  may  remain  unanswered.  In 
his  highest  moments  Browne — anticipating  Wordsworth's 
mood — seemed  to  commune  with  some  universal  soul 
of  Xature,  but,  whether  this  were  so  in  reality  or  not, 
he  could  not  doubt  that  some  common  spirit,  which  no 
man  can  properly  call  his  own,  plays  in  and  through 
everyone  of  us  like  the  breeze  in  an  Eolian  harp  : 
''  Whoever  feels  not  the  warm  gale  and  gentle  ventila- 
tion of  this  Spirit,  though  I  feel  his  pulse,  I  dare  not 
say  he  lives  ;  for  truly,  without  this,  to  me  there  is  no 
heat  under  the  tropic,  nor  any  light  though  I  dwell  in 
the  body  of  the  sun." 

This  wonderful  universe  becomes  yet  more  wonderful 
when   we  know  that  it  is  tenanted  by  noble  invisible 

D 


50  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

guests  —  tutelary  angels  of  countries  and  provinces, 
guardian  angels  of  man,  woman,  and  child  ;  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  evil  spirits  roam  abroad  by  permission, 
infuse  melancholy  into  susceptible  minds,  communicate 
secrets  of  unholy  knowledge,  delude  the  credulous  as 
phantasms  of  the  dead,  and  possess  the  unhappy  bodies 
of  witches.  Truly,  a  world  full  of  wonders,  where  the 
Genius  of  Middlesex  may  be  superintending  the  crowd 
that  flows  morning  and  evening  through  the  city,  or  a 
demon  may  be  gazing  at  you  through  the  eyes  of  some 
Rose  Cullender  or  Amy  Duny.^  Browne's  imaginative 
wonder  is  free  from  perturbation  ;  he  could  sooner  pity 
the  great  fallen  archangel  than  be  terrified  by  his 
malice ;  God's  affable  ministers  approach  us  with  no 
waving  of  fiery  swords  or  blast  of  doom,  but  rather  on 
gentle  wings  and  with  "  courteous  revelations." 

A  great  scale  of  creatures  ascends  and  descends  from 
the  meanest  worm  to  the  loftiest  of  the  cherubim  ;  in 
this  scale  man  has  his  place  as  a  kind  of  amphibious 
being,  existing  partly  in  a  material  and  partly  even 
now  in  a  superterrestrial  sphere.  Of  death,  therefore, 
Browne  had  no  fear  ;  are  we  not  already  half  in  the 
sanctuary  of  spirits  ?  Only  through  a  natural  bashful- 
ness,  he  thought  with  a  certain  remorse  of  the  ignominy 
of  the  body  after  its  great  change.  Not  by  the  vulgar 
contemplation  of  cross  bones  and  a  skull  is  the  true 
theory  of  death  to  be  attained.  He  meditated  rather 
on  life  than  on  that  cloudy  portal  through  which  we 
pass   from   life    to    life.      If   he    mused    on   heaven,   no 

1  The  names  of  those  unhappy  women  whom  Sir  T.  Browne's  evidence 
in  1664  helped  to  send  to  execution  on  a  charge  of  witchcraft. 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  5 1 

Apocalyptic  dream  came  to  him  of  emeralds,  chrysolites, 
and  streets  of  paven  gold  ;  he  looked  within  to  those 
highest  moments  when  the  boundless  appetite  of  the 
spirit  seems  to  be  satisfied  :  "  The  soul  of  man  may  be 
in  heaven  anywhere,  even  within  the  limits  of  his  proper 
body."  Fixing  his  contemplations  on  such  attainments 
and  foretastes  of  joy,  he  had  little  regard  for  those 
terrors  of  hell  which  filled  the  imagination  of  so  many 
of  his  contemporaries  ;  gross  fancies  of  corporal  torture 
by  fire  did  not  afflict  him  ;  the  hell  which  he  sometimes 
seemed  to  discover  lay,  like  heaven,  within  his  own 
heart:  "Lucifer  keeps  his  court  in  my  breast,  Legion 
is  revived  in  me."  Such  thoughts,  however,  were 
quickly  encountered  by  thoughts  of  the  abyss  of  God's 
mercies,  and  even  judgments  put  on  the  countenance 
of  mercies.  He  was  not  the  master  of  his  own  destiny; 
that  was  provided  for  by  a  higher  Power ;  his  future 
had  been  all  determined  for  him  before  the  world  was  : 
"  Thus  was  I  dead  before  T  was  alive  ;  though  my 
grave  be  England,  my  dying  place  was  Paradise,  and 
Eve  miscarried  of  me  before  she  conceived  of  Cain." 
And  so,  with  a  flight  of  the  intellect  and  imagination 
towards  eternity  and  the  Divine  will,  Browne's  confes- 
sion of  faith  attains  a  resting-placCj  and  settles  there  in 
ii  calm  of  wonder  and  of  love. 

Ill 

The  second  part  of  the  ''  Eeligio  Medici "  considers 
the  grace  of  charity,  without  which  faith  is  a  mere 
notion.  In  a  poem  of  Cardinal  Newman's  a  warning 
is    uttered    against  the   easy  dreams   of  an   otiose   ami- 


52  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

ability ;    true    love    has    rigour    at    its    heart  ;    hatred 
and    zeal   and    fear    are   its   awful   consorts    and    com- 
panions.     In    Browne's    day  zeal  was   not    lacking    in 
either   of    the    contending   religious    parties ;    the    zeal 
of    Laud   was    encountered   by  the   zeal  of   Laud's  op- 
ponents ;    Browne   distrusted    the    piety  of  fiery  indig- 
nation   ag^ainst    the    alleo^ed    enemies  of    heaven :    "  no 
man   can  justly  censure    or   condemn    another,   because 
indeed   no    man  truly  knows   another."      Which  of  us, 
indeed,    truly  knows    himself?      Perhaps,    after    all,    a 
natural  disinclination  to  unreasonable  repugnances  and 
aversions    is    favourable    to    the   growth   of    that   plant 
that  springs  from  no  mortal  soil — divine  charity.     True 
charity  is  not  a   weak   commiseration  for  our  fellows  ; 
it   is   jDart    of    the    energy   of    our   love    of    God.      But 
petty  instincts   of  hostility   to   any  fragments   of  God's 
world — to  beast,  or  reptile  or  plant — do  not  predispose 
us    to    the    reception    of    His    highest    grace.      Browne 
has    pleasure   in    thinking    that    he    is    not    palisadoed 
with    the    sharp    stakes   of    prejudice    or   bastioned    in 
idiosyncrasy,    but   lies    open    to    every  diversity  of    en- 
joyment :    ''  I    have   no    antipathy,    or    rather   idiosyn- 
crasy,   in    diet,    humour,    air,    anything.   ...   I    could 
digest   a    salad    gathered    in    a  churchyard   as  well   as 
in    a    garden.      I    cannot   start   at   the    presence   of    a 
serpent,  scorpion,  lizard,   or   salamander" — why  should 
he,  who  chose  rather  to  decipher  these  odd  hieroglyphs 
of   God  ? — ''  at    the  sight    of   a    toad    or   viper  I  find 
in   me   no  desire  to  take  up  a  stone  to  destroy  them.'^ 
If  there  was   anything  which   raised   his   scorn,  it  was 
that    disorganised    rabble  —  no    true    people  —  which 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  55 

Burke  afterwards  named  "  the  swinish  multitude,"  a 
hydra-headed  beast,  humanity  forfeiting  through  mad- 
ness and  impiety,  its  irue  prerogative  ;  but  his  disdain 
was  not  a  ciass-feeling,  an  aristocratic  insolence  to- 
wards those  rude  mechanicals,  at  whose  mingled  folly 
and  shrewd  sense  Shakespeare  smiled ;  he  discovered 
his  rabble  among  the  gentry  also,  plebeian  heads, 
however  dignified  by  rank  or  birth.  Differences  of 
opinion,  difference  of  race  or  nationality  he  could 
hardly  conceive  of  as  alienating  men  from  one  another.' 
There  were  but  differences  of  degree  in  his  universal 
-charity ;  God,  his  country,  his  friends  he  embraced  as 
his  closest  kin  ;  and  after  them  all  those  his  fellows 
to  whom  he   could   render  any  human  service. 

At  thirty  years  of  age  Browne  had  not  yet  felt 
that  "  natural  magnetism  "  which  afterwards  drew  him 
to  Mistress  Dorothy  Mileham.  The  fascination  of 
ideas  had  preserved  him  from  the  passion  for  any 
<;reature  of  flesh  and  blood.  Xot,  indeed,  that  he 
who  regarded  a  toad  or  salamander  without  hostility 
•could  be  ''  averse  from  that  sweet  sex " ;  rather  he 
was  naturally  amorous  of  all  that  is  beautiful.  But 
the  harmony  which  he  saw  in  the  marriage-union 
reached  him,  entered  into  him,  became  a  part  of 
himself  in  other  delightful  ways,  and  ways  less  cum- 
bered with  material  interests ;  it  ravished  him  in  the 
organ  tones  and  the  voices  of  a  church ;  "  even  that 
tavern-music,  which  makes  one  man  merry,  another 
■mad,  strikes  in  me  a  deep  fit  of  devotion,  and  a 
profound  contemplation  of  the  First  Composer."  We 
may  suppose    that  when   Thomas    Browne   pleaded  his 


54  ^'^^  Thomas  Browne 

cause  with  Mistress  Mileham  in  some  pleached  arbour 
of  the  Burlingham  garden,  he  represented  to  her  that 
he  affected  all  harmony,  and  that  to  him  the  har- 
monical  composition  of  her  soul  was  an  hieroglyphical 
and   shadowed  lesson   of  the  whole  world. 

It  was,  in  fact,  in  this  noble  manner  that  Browne 
conceived  the  art  of  music,  rather  as  a  disciple  of 
Plato  or  a  foreseer  of  Beethoven  than  as  a  seven- 
teenth -  century  lover  of  light  airs  and  recollected 
terms  arranged  for  the  lute  and  youthful  voices ;  he 
recognised  ic^  music  the  interpreter  of  nature  and  an 
ambassador  of  the  divinity ;  the  consonance  of  the 
microcosm  of  man's  soul  echoes  with  a  music  akin 
to  that  of  the  spheral  concord.  He  feared  by  per- 
turbations, even  by  indignations  that  might  seem 
righteous,  to  disturb  the  inner  harmony  of  the  spirit^ 
by  which  he  was  a  part  of  the  vast  symphony  of 
God.  Yet  how  could  he  greatly  mar  that  "  undis- 
turbed song  of  pure  concent,"  when  God's  abyss  of 
mercy  encircled  all  his  existence  ?  "  As  for  my  life, 
it  is  a  miracle  of  thirty  years,  which  to  relate  were 
not  a  history  but  a  piece  of  poetry,  and  would  sound 
to  common  ears  like  a  fable."  ''  Surely,"  exclaimed 
Johnson  in  the  spirit  of  eighteenth-century  common 
sense,  ''  a  man  may  visit  France  and  Italy,  reside 
at  Montpellier  and  Padua,  and  at  last  take  his  degree 
at  Leyden,  without  anything  miraculous."  The  stand- 
ing miracle — as  indeed  Johnson  remembered — is  life 
itself,  with  that  secret  labyrinth  of  Providence  which 
entangles  and  resolves  the  least  remarkable  of  human 
stories.     To   Browne    every  soul  of   man   was   a    frag- 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  55 

raent  of  the  gr^at  wonder,   and  the  humblest  no  less 
than  the  greatest :  "  There  is  surely  a  piece  of  Divinity 
in    us,   something   that   was   before   the   elements,  and 
owes  no  homage  unto  the  sun."     The  progress  of  each 
ordinary  day  was    to    him    miraculous — darkness    and 
light,  the  mystery  of  sleep,  the  mystery  of  waking,  the 
flight  of  thought,  the  flame  of   love,   the  harmony  of 
the  soul,  the  play  of  God  in  the  human  spirit.      Browne 
was   learned,   and,   according    to   the   standards    of   his 
earlier    days,   a    man    of    science ;    but    erudition    and 
science  drop  away  when   he  contemplates  the  primary 
facts  of  the   soul   and  of   life ;    the    mystic,  on  whom 
the    scholar    and    the   man   of    science    had    been   en- 
grafted,   alone    remains,    and    with    the    prayer    of    a 
mystic    for    the    total    subjugation    or    abolishment    of 
self,    his   book    concludes — "  Thy  will    be    done,    even 
in   my  own   undoing." 

IV 

Browne's  type  of  mind,  so  curious  in  its  research  for 
recondite  facts,  so  elusive  of  facts  in  its  meditative 
climbings,  is  of  rare  occurrence,  and  among  English 
writers  of  his  day  it  was  unique.  He  was  sceptical  of 
many  things  commonly  believed ;  credulous  of  many 
things  which  others  doubted.  Chief  among  his  gifts  to 
us  is  that  gift  of  genius — the  quickening  of  our  sense  of 
awe  and  solemn  wonder  in  presence  of  the  familiar 
phenomena  of  daily  life,  in  presence  of  the  external 
world  and  the  world  of  our  own  souls.  Mr  Theodore 
Watts-Dunton,in  his  article  on  Dante  Rossetti  contributed 
to    the  ''Encyclopsedia  Britannica,"  has  spoken  of  the 


56  Sw  Thomas  Br  ozone 

movement  of  recoil  in  literature  from  eighteenth-century 
materialism  as  the  Renascence  of  the  spirit  of  wonder  in 
poetry  and  art,  of  which,  he  says,  Rossetti  became  the 
acknowledged  protagonist.  But  the  wonder  derived  from 
romance  is  shallow  or  fragile  compared  with  the  wonder 
in  reality.  A  Blessed  Damozel  or  a  Rose  Mary  appears 
|i  as  a  pale  and  shadowy  marvel  of  art-wizardry  if  set 
'  beside  a  peasant  woman  nursing  her  infant  at  a  cottage 
door  or  an  old  man  breaking  stones  by  the  roadside. 
Pandora  and  Proserpina  and  Beata  Beatrix  are  figures 
of  visionary  power ;  but  they  evoke  a  sense  of  wonder 
less  large  and  sane  than  what  we  feel  in  view  of  Millet's 
plain  heroic  sower  casting  his  seed  into  the  common  clay- 
The  true  protagonist  of  the  nineteenth-century  Renas- 
cence of  wonder  was  neither  Rossetti  nor  Coleridge,  but 
Wordsworth.  And  though  Browne  generalises  rather 
than  individualises,  though  he  troubles  the  simplicity  of 
feeling  with  paradox  and  with  quaintness,  something  of 
that  same  illumination  which  is  part  of  the  natural  magic 
of  the  "  Highland  Girl  of  Inversnaid  "  and  of  '*  Stepping 
Westward  "  touches  us  as  we  read  the  eloquent  periods 
of  the  '' Religio  Medici";  we  are  startled  out  of  the 
dream  of  custom  ;  we  look  around  on  Mother  Earth  as  if 
we  were  her  first-born  and  none  had  lived  before  us. 

Browne's  ''  Christian  Morals  "  is  of  a  much  later  date 
than  the  "  Religio  Medici,"  and  was  not  published  until 
after  the  writer's  death.  The  "Religio  Medici"  is  a 
confession  uttered  in  solitude,  a  meditation,  sometimes 
a  rapt  contemplation  ;  ''  Christian  Morals  "  is  didactic  in 
its  purpose,  a  series  of  brief  exhortations  addressed  to 
others.      It  was  in  lonely  musings  that  Browne  attained 


Sii'  Thomas  Bi'oiviie  5  7 

his  clearest  altitudes;  yet  the  "Christian  Morals"  con- 
tains not  a  few  striking  passages  on  which  he  has 
impressed  his  characteristic  sign  manual.  This,  for 
example,  on  the  conquest  of  the  passions  : 

"  Make  the  quarrelling  Lapithytes  sleep,  and  Centaurs 
within  lie  quiet.  Chain  up  the  unruly  Legion  in  thy 
breast ;  lead  thine  own  captivity  captive,  and  be  Caesar 
within  thyself." 

And  this  on  the  mystery  of  the  divine  nature  : 

''  Where  imitation  [of  God]  can  go  no  further,  let 
admiration  step  in,  whereof  there  is  no  end  in  the  wisest 
of  men.  .  .  .  Even  the  most  wino^ed  thouo'hts  fall  at 
the  setting-out,  and  reach  not  the  portal  of  Divinity." 

And  this  metaphor  declaring  the  course  of  the  sins 
named  deadly  : 

"  We  are  carried  into  the  dark  lake,  like  the  Egyptian 
river  into  the  sea,  by  seven  principal  ostiaries." 

And  this  beautiful  word  on  the  peace  of  submission  : 

''  Guide  not  the  hand  of  God,  nor  order  the  fing^er  of 
the  Almighty  unto  thy  will  and  pleasure  ;  but  sit  quiet 
in  the  soft  showers  of  Providence." 

And  this  on  the  joyful  close  of  life  for  one  who  has 
■escaped  the  sins  of  youth  : 

"He  that  hath  not  early  suffered  this  shipwreck,  and 
in  his  younger  days  escaped  this  Charybdis,  may  make 
a  happy  voyage,  and  not  come  in  with  black  sails  into 
the  port." 

"  Christian  Morals,"  itself  probably  a  tesselated  arrange- 
ment from  Browne's  note- books,  bears  well  to  be  repre- 
■sented  by  fragments.  A  few  more  sentences  may  be 
added : 


58  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

"  Lose  not  the  advantage  of  solitude,  and  the  society 
of  thyself,  nor  be  only  content  but  delight  to  be  alone 
and  single  with  Omnipresency.  He  who  is  thus  pre- 
pared, the  day  is  not  uneasy  nor  the  night  black  unto 
him.  Darkness  may  bound  his  eyes,  not  his  imagination. 
In  his  bed  he  may  lie  like  Pompey  and  his  sons  in  all 
quarters  of  the  earth,  may  speculate  the  universe,  and 
enjoy  the  whole  world  in  the  hermitage  of  himself." 

"  To  enjoy  true  happiness  we  must  travel  into  a  very 
far  country,  and  even  out  of  ourselves ;  for  the  pearl  we 
seek  for  is  not  in  the  Indian  but  in  the  Empyrean  ocean." 

"  [0/  one  wlio  lias  reached  old  age.]  Having  been  long 
tossed  in  the  ocean  of  this  world,  he  will  by  that  time 
feel  the  indraught  of  another,  unto  which  this  seems  but 
preparatory,  and  without  it  of  no  high  value." 

With  one  more  passage  these  citations  may  close — that 
which  brings  the  first  part  of  "  Christian  Morals  "  to  a 
conclusion ;  we  may,  if  we  please,  indulge  the  fancy  that 
when  Sir  Thomas  Browne  described  the  "  true  heroick 
English  gentleman,"  he  thought  of  what  his  own  sailor 
lad  might  have  been  had  he  fulfilled  on  earth  the  promise 
of  his  boyhood.  ''  Where  true  fortitude  dwells,  loyalty, 
bounty,  friendship,  and  fidelity  may  be  found.  A  man 
may  confide  in  persons  constituted  for  noble  ends,  who 
dare  do  and  suffer,  and  who  have  a  hand  to  burn  for 
their  country  and  their  friend.  Small  and  creeping 
things  are  the  product  of  petty  souls.  He  is  like  to  be 
mistaken  who  makes  choice  of  a  covetous  man  for  his 
friend,  or  relieth  upon  the  reed  of  narrow  and  poltroon 
friendship.  Pitiful  things  are  only  to  be  found  in  the 
cottages  of  such  breasts    but  bright  thoughts,  clear  deeds. 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  59 

constancy,  fidelity,  bravery,  and  generous  honesty  are  the 
gems  of  noble  minds,  wherein  (to  derogate  from  none) 
the  true  heroick  English  gentleman  hath  no  peer." 


"  The  Garden  of  Cyrus,"  first  published  three  years  be- 
fore the  Restoration,  is  the  most  conspicuous  example  of 
Browne's  spider-like  architecture  of  ingenious  gossamer 
webs.      To  brush  it  away  would  be  harsh  ;  to  trace  its  re- 
ticulations is  a  bewilderment  of  the  brain.     In  speaking 
of  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  in  the   "  Religio  Medici " 
Browne  confesses  that  he  had  often  admired  the  mystical 
way  of  Pythagoras  and  the  secret  magic  of  numbers. 
Before  we  of  the  present  day  can  be  caught  in  the  meshes  of 
his  mystical  mathematics,  we  must  dismiss  more  of  our  in- 
tellectual sanity  than  is  quite  convenient.     We  are  forced, 
for  our  own  part,  to  regard  the  exposition  of  nature  and 
art,  and  the  mysteries  of  the  universe  in  the  light  of  the 
quincunx  and  the  number  five  as  a  kind  of  game  ;  but 
the  quincuncial  game  is  somewhat  laborious  and  is  some- 
what long.     Browne  had  doubtless  more  than  a  half  faith 
in  his  Pythagorism,  but  at  the  same  time  he  had  some- 
thing of  a  sportsman's  joy  in  hunting  his  prey  through 
the   heavens   and   the   earth,  until  at  length  earth  and 
heaven  so  thicken  with  quincuncial  forms  that  the  chase 
becomes    a   mystical   battue.     Only  in   the  concluding 
page,  which  haunts  the  memories  of  all  who  have  once 
read  it,  does  Browne  charm  us  into  credulity  ;  and  at 
that   point  he   is   prepared   for  sleep   and    oblivion    of 
quinary  arrangements  :  ''To  keep  our  eyes  open  longer 
were   to  act  our  Antipodes.      The   huntsmen  are  up  in 


6o  Sh""  Thomas  Browne 

America,  and  they  are  already  past  their  first  sleep  in 
Persia."  An  excellent  and  a  poetic  reason  for  moving 
bedward — the  wave  of  sleep  is  washing  round  the  globe, 
the  tide  that  has  ebbed  from  one  hemisphere  invades  the 
other,  and  should  we  not  be  in  harmony  with  nature.^ 
The  reader  may,  if  he  please,  slumber  also,  and  when 
he  awakes  think  that  he  has  dreamed  of  floral  and 
starry  quincunxes  or  is  dreaming  still,  exclaiming  with 
Demetrius  in  Shakespeare's  comedy — 

Are  you  sure 
That  we  are  awake  ?     It  seems  to  me 
That  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream. 

And  indeed  the  Puck  that  misleads  night-wanderers 
had  some  acquaintance  with  the  learned  physician  of 
Norwich. 

Highly  characteristic  of  its  author  is  the  "  Letter 
to  a  Friend  upon  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  his  in- 
timate friend,"  which  was  probably  written  immediately 
after  "  Christian  Morals/'  but  remained  unprinted  until 
1690.  Some  portions  of  the  letter  were  conveyed 
from  "  Christian  Morals,"  which  was  still  in  manuscript, 
to  form  an  edifying  close,  so  that  the  "memento  'niori 
might  lead  to  a  final  "  Think  of  living."  The  mystery 
of  death  is  always  potent  with  Browne's  imagination 
and  his  familiarity  as  a  physician  with  all  its  physical 
details  leads  to  that  conjunction  of  definite  fact  with 
visionary  imaginings,  which  gave  the  two  sides  of 
his   genius  their   appropriate  play.     Already,  when  he 

1  Coleridge  seems  to  see  only  the  oddity  in  Browne's  plea  for  sleep : 
' '  Was  there  ever  such  a  reason  given  before  for  going  to  bed  at  mid- 
night ? " 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  6i 

wrote,  the  departed  friend  bad  been  in  the  grave 
some  little  time ;  be  was  already  "  no  puny  among 
the  migbty  nations  of  tbe  dead,"  to  wbose  dark 
society  every  bour  adds  a  tbousand.  No  dreams  or 
airy  nuncios  had  announced  to  bis  correspondent  their 
common  loss,  and  the  physician  takes  up  bis  pen 
to  make  a  full  report  of  tbe  case.  Tbe  young  sufferer, 
wbose  disease  was  a  consumptive  wasting  away,  had 
died  in  May,  and  when  Browne,  as  his  medical 
adviser,  bad  first  visited  him,  be  perceived  at  once 
that  the  end  was  not  very  far  off:  ''He  was  not 
like  to  behold  a  grasshopper,  much  less  to  pluck 
another  fig."  ^  The  attenuated  features — "  I  never 
more  lively  beheld  the  starved  characters  of  Dante 
in  any  living  face " — showed  that  fatal  symptom  of 
assuming  the  aspect  of  elder  kinsfolk.  Change  of 
climate  was  useless  for  one  on  whom  death  had  set 
bis  broad  arrow ;  the  Morta,  deity  of  fate,  bad  im- 
pressed "  her  hard  seal  "  upon  bis  temples.  But  his 
departure  was  soft,  as  if  tbe  rest  of  sleep  bad  seized 
him.  With  that  noting  of  curiosities  which  was 
characteristic  of  Browne,  he  observed  that  at  the 
hour  of  death  the  moon  was  in  motion  from  the 
meridian,  "  at  which  time  an  old  Italian  lono-  ao-o 
would  persuade  me  that  tbe  greatest  part  of  men 
died."  Some  were  of  opinion  that  he  would  breathe 
his  last  upon  tbe  approaching  day  of  his  nativity — 
it  was  Browne's  own  case  some  years  later — ''  the  tail 

1  The  grasshopper  would  have  been  a  burden  ;  the  fig  is  perhaps 
named  because  Hippocrates  had  observed  that  the  time  of  the  year  is 
mortal  when  the  fig-leaf  resembles  a  daw's  claw. 


62  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

of  the  snake  returning  into  its  mouth " ;  but  he 
lingered  a  little  longer.  The  patient's  female  friends, 
desiring  some  omen  of  life,  were  irrationally  curious 
to  examine  his  dreams :  "  He  was  now  past  the 
healthful  dreams  of  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  in  their 
clarity  and  proper  courses.  'Twas  too  late  to  dream 
of  flying,  of  limpid  fountains,  smooth  waters,  white 
vestments,  and  fruitful  green  trees."  The  sick  man 
dreamed  of  the  dead  ;  but  to  dream  of  the  dead, 
"  so  they  appear  not  in  dark  habits  and  take  nothing 
away  from  us,"  is,  as  Hippocrates  explains,  of  good 
signification.  As  we  read  the  letter  we  assist  at  the 
bed-side  of  the  unknown  youth  —  one  of  many  such 
unknown — and  see  the  light  of  his  spirit  shining 
through  the  almost  translucent  frame,  like  the  gleam- 
ing of  a  lamp  circled  by  porcelain.  From  one  ignoble 
infirmity  of  some  who  approach  their  end  the  sufferer 
was  wholly  free  —  he  had  not  grown  self-absorbed, 
narrow-minded,  or  tenacious  of  the  things  of  earth ; 
nor,  though  he  felt  for  the  world  a  "  sober  contempt," 
did  he  ever  fall  into  a  cynic's  mood,  understanding 
well  that  for  the  very  reason  that  the  felicities  of  this 
world  do  not  satisfy  the  soul,  we  may  accept  them, 
so  to  soften  the  stream  of  our  lives.  "  To  be  dissolved 
and  be  with  Christ  was  his  dying  ditty,"  yet  Browne 
temperately  adds  that  to  be  content  with  death  may 
be  better  than  to  desire  it.  His  years  were  few  ; 
but  if  we  reckon  up  only  our  best  days,  a  life  of 
many  decades  may  be  only  a  span-long,  and  thus  youth 
may  have  a  longer  term  than  old  age.  With  such 
consolations  as  these  Browne  communicates  the  mourn- 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  63 

ful  tidings,  from  which  he  passes  on  to  those  ethical 
and  religious  reflections  that  are  also  embodied  in 
his  "  Christian  Morals." 

VI 

No  theme  better  fitted  to  evoke  Browne's  various 
powers  can  be  imagined  than  that  suggested  by  the  dis- 
covery in  Norfolk  of  certain  sepulchral  urns,  several  of 
small  dimensions,  one  more  capacious.  The  urns  were 
in  themselves  objects  of  curiosity,  which  excited  his 
interest  as  an  antiquary  and  led  him  into  paths  of 
strange  learning :  higher  mysteries  of  darkness  and 
of  light,  of  mortality  and  of  immortality  encompassed 
them.  All  the  burial  customs  of  mankind  from  the 
interment  of  Adam,  perhaps  near  Damascus,  perhaps 
on  Mount  Calvary,  to  the  funeral  rites  of  comparatively 
recent  times  are  recited.  Indian  Brahmins,  Chal- 
deans, Jews,  Egyptians,  Scythians,  Parsees,  Mussulmans, 
Christians,  Greeks,  Eomans,  Britons  defile  before  us 
on  their  way  to  the  pyre  or  to  the  tomb.  But  Browne 
was  more  than  an  antiquary.  There  was  much  virtue 
for  his  meditative  passion  and  his  imagination  in  these 
sad  pitchers  silently  expressing  the  ruins  of  forgotten 
times,  filled  with  ashes  half-mortared  to  the  sand  and 
sides,  and  having  some  long  roots  of  quich  or  dog's- 
grass  wreathed  about  the  bones.  To  which  of  the 
great  nations  of  the  dead  did  they  belong  ?  Who 
laid  them  in  their  silent  retreat  beneath  the  soil  ? 
Did  they  contain  the  relics  of  warriors,  or  priests,  or 
children,  or  lamented  women  ?  Such  questions  gave 
his  speculation  pause,  and  then  pushed  it  onward  into 


64  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

the  obscure.  Above  these  poor  jars  of  human  dust 
rose  the  mysterious  powers  of  Life,  and  Love,  and 
Death,  rose  the  bright  mystery  of  fire,  rose  Time 
the  shadow,  and  the  deep  illumination  of  Eternity, 
Readers  of  Browne's  "  Hydriotaphia "  are  apt  to  pass 
lightly  over  its  antiquarian  lore,  and  to  dwell  long 
on  the  eloquence  of  its  closing  pages  ;  but  the  curious 
pillars  of  his  structure  support  the  cloudy  vault ;  the 
matter-of-fact  details,  lit  ever  and  anon  by  some 
gleam  of  romance,  are  needful  as  a  basis  for  his  im- 
passioned contemplation.  The  material  pomps  and 
ceremonies  of  death  lead  up  to  the  sublime  meditation 
on  its  spiritual  mystery  ;  the  long  procession  conducts 
us  to  an  altar  of  worship. 

The  Norfolk  urns  were  discovered  but  a  little  way 
below  the  surface  of  the  soil.  Time  lightly  conceals 
the  varieties  of  which  it  has  a  number  without  end 
in  the  heavens  and  in  the  earth.  Great  and  small  are 
brought  together  by  the  abstracting  power  of  imagina- 
tion. Wordsworth,  watching  a  butterfly  poised  upon 
a  flower,  finds  a  parallel  for  its  motionless  life  in 
breadth  of  frozen  seas  as  motionless.  Browne  makes 
a  sudden  transit  from  the  handful  of  dust  to  new-found 
stars  and  to  that  great  antiquity,  America,  which  lay 
buried  in  an  unexplored  ocean  for  thousands  of  years. 
In  these  rural  urns  of  Norfolk  no  lamps,  no  sealed-up 
oil  or  wine,  no  lachrymatories  or  tear-bottles  were 
found.  Yet  it  \vas  customary  with  the  ancients  to 
burn  or  bury  things  of  worth,  "  either  as  farewells  unto 
all  pleasure  or  vain  apprehension  that  the  departed 
might  use  them  in  the  other  world."      Witness   "  the 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  65 

gem  or  beryl-ring  upon  the  finger  of  Cynthia,  the 
mistress  of  Propertius,  when  after  her  funeral  pyre 
her  ghost  appeared  unto  him " — so  Browne  loved  to 
light  up  the  gloom  with  some  touch  of  romantic 
beauty  or  wonder.  These  vessels  were  composed  of 
unadorned  clay,  but  Browne  was  unwilling  to  believe 
that  they  entered  their  graves  naked,  without  ''the 
old  habit  of  flowers."  Many  fragments  of  skulls  lay 
close  together ;  he  speculates  on  the  possibility  of  a 
passionate  attachment  between  some  who  would  not 
be  separated  even  in  their  dust :  "  The  ashes  of 
Domitian  were  mingled  with  those  of  Julia ;  of 
Achilles  with  those  of  Patroclus.  All  urns  contain  not 
single  ashes ;  without  confused  burnings  they  affec- 
tionately compounded  their  bones,  passionately  en- 
deavouring to  continue  their  living  unions.  And 
when  distance  of  death  denied  such  conjunctions, 
unsatisfied  affections  conceived  some  satisfaction  to 
be  neighbours  in  the  grave,  to  lie  urn  by  urn,  and 
touch  but  in  their  manes!'  To  seek  out  such  nobler 
magic  that  sleeps  in  mortal  relics  is  the  way  to  quell 
the  diseased  curiosity  for  that  petty  magic  attributed 
by  sorcerers  to  the  ashes  of  the  dead.  Highest  magic 
of  all  is  the  hope  that  dwells  in  them  of  resurrection 
which,  indeed,  is  the  life  of  the  grave  and  "sweetens 
our  habitation   in    the   land   of  moles   and   pismires." 

"  In  that '  Hydriotaphia,'  "  exclaimed  Coleridge,  "  how 
earthly,  how  redolent  of  graves  and  sepulchres  is  every 
line  !  .  .  .  the  gayest  thing  you  shall '  meet  with  shall 
be  a  silver  nail  or  gilt  Anno  Domini  from  a  perished 
coffin  top."      It  is  not  so  ;  gaiety,  indeed,  and  the  grave 

■~~  E 


66  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

are  only  forced  into  companionship  by  insensibility  or 
by  the  humour  of  fantastic  melancholy,  by  Hamlet  or 
by  the    rude  churchyard  knave.      Sir  Thomas  Browne 
discovers    love   in   kinship   with   grief,   and   life   in   an 
indissoluble    alliance    with    death.       He   yields   to    the 
sublime  attractions  of  the  grave,  finding  there  our  finest 
memories    and    our    highest    hope.       He    thinks    with 
tenderness  of  the  rites  of  sorrow,  and  of  their  passion 
or   their    grace ;    how   the    mother    wrapped   the   little 
bones  in  linen,  and  dried  them  in  her  bosom,  "  the  first 
fostering  part  and   place  of  their  nourishment,"  or  how 
sweet  blossoms  were  strewn.      In  the  requiem  music  and 
funeral  chaunts  he  finds  a  symbolical  expression  of  the 
harmony  of  the  soul,  which  had  departed  to  enjoy  the 
primitive    harmony    of    heaven,    from    whence    it    first 
descended.      The    supine  position    of  the   corpse   is   an 
emblem  of  the  repose  of  profound  sleep.      The  survivors 
sucked    in    the    last   breath    of    their  expiring  friends, 
through    some    Pythagorical    opinion    that     the     spirit 
passed    from   one  body  into   another   in    the   desire   for 
•endless    union.       Oil    was    poured    upon    the    pyre    to 
facilitate  the  ascension  of  the  soul.      "  That  in  strewing 
their  tombs  the  Romans  affected  the  rose,  the  Greeks 
amaranthus    and    myrtle ;    that  the   funeral  pyre   con- 
sisted of  sweet  fuel,  cypress,  fir,  larix,  yew,  and  trees 
perpetually    verdant,    lay    silent    expressions    of    their 
surviving    hopes."      No    criticism  can  be  wider   of  the 
I  mark    than  that  which  describes  the   '"  Hydriotaphia " 
as  merely  redolent  of  graves. 

His   lore   as   an    antiquary    ended,    Browne   rises   to 
that  concluding  chapter  in  which   light  contends  with 


Sir  Thomas  Browne  6^ 

darkness  and  remains  the  victor.  The  opening  sentence 
strikes  a  chord  of  majestic  harmony  :  "  Now  since  these 
dead  bones  have  already  outlasted  the  living  ones  of 
Methuselah,  and  in  a  yard  underground  and  thin 
walls  of  clay,  outworn  all  the  strong  and  spacious 
buildings  above  it,  and  quietly  rested  under  the  drums 
and  tramplings  of  three  conquests,  what  prince  can 
promise  such  diuturnity  unto  his  relics  ?  "  ^  With  every 
appeal  to  the  imagination  and  an  organ-like  solemnity 
of  utterance  Browne  urges  his  central  thought — that 
our  memorials  on  earth  must  pass  away  as  a  dream  : 
*'  Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired."  Yet  we  shall  not 
utterly  perish.  Having  removed  all  hope  of  terrestrial 
immortality,  Browne  looks  upward,  and  perceives  the 
dawn  of  a  deeper  light  than  that  of  earth  ;  and  this  so 
glorifies  human  nature  that  it  almost  justifies  the  cele- 
brations of  the  tomb  :  ''  Man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid 
in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solemnising  nativities 
and  deaths  with  equal  lustre,  nor  omitting  ceremonies 
of  bravery  in  the  infamy  of  his  nature."  Pyramids  and 
obelisks  are  but  "  wild  enormities,"  when  judged  by  the 
Christian  hope.      The  writer's  sympathy  with  the  passion 

^  De  Quincey  in  commenting  on  the  sentence  enters  into  rivalry  with 
Browne  in  the  splendours  of  elaborate  rhetoric:  "AVhat  a  melodious 
ascent,"  he  writes,  "as  if  a  prelude  to  some  impassioned  requiem, 
breathing  from  the  pomps  of  earth  and  from  the  sanctities  of  the  gi-ave  ! 
AYhat  difl^idus  decumanus  of  rhetoric  !  Time  expounded,  not  by  genera- 
tions or  centuries,  but  by  vast  periods  of  conquests  and  dynasties  ;  by 
cycles  of  Pharaohs  and  Ptolemies,  Antiochi  and  Arsacides  !  And  these 
vast  successions  of  time  distinguished  and  figured  by  the  uproars  which 
revolve  at  their  inaugurations  :  by  the  drums  and  tramplings  rolling 
overhead  upon  the  chambers  of  forgotten  dead — the  trepidation  of  time 
and  mortality  vexing,  at  secular  intervals,  the  everlasting  sabbaths  of 
the  grave  ! " 


68  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

of  religious  mysticism  carries  him  away ;  already  some 
on  earth  have  known  the  transit  from  death  to  life  and 
the  rapture  of  immortality  :  "  If  any  have  been  so  happy 
as  truly  to  understand  Christian  annihilation,  .  .  .  the 
kiss  of  the  spouse,  gustation  of  God,  and  ingression  into 
the  divine  shadow,  they  have  already  had  a  handsome 
anticipation  of  heaven."  To  one  in  whom  there  lives 
such  evidence  of  things  unseen,  monuments  are  vain  : 
'*  'Tis  all  one  to  lie  in  St  Innocent's  churchyard  as  in 
the  sands  of  Egypt.  Ready  to  be  anything  in  the 
ecstasy  of  being  ever,  and  as  content  with  six  foot  as 
the  r^ixoles  of  Adrianus." 

Such  is  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  stateliest  prose-poem^ 
enriched  with  all  curious  learning,  and  passing  from 
erudition  to  wonder  and  to  faith.  Its  poles  are 
mortality  and  immortality  ;  it  moves  from  darkness  to 
light.  The  clods  of  the  valley  are  sweet  to  the  writer's 
brooding  imagination  ;  but  above  earth  and  its  mourning 
trains,  and  fall  of  tears,  and  requiems  of  lament,  rises,, 
as  it  were,  the  illimitable  heaven  of  a  day  in  mid- 
summer.     Mortality  is  swallowed  up  in  life. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Browne  contributed  any  idea 
of  capital  importance  to  seventeenth-century  thought  \ 
he  ascertained  no  new  truth  ;  he  confirmed  no  old  truth 
by  an  original  dialectic.  His  gift  has  been  one  for  the 
emotions  and  the  imagination  ;  he  felt  the  wonder  of 
the  world ;  he  widened  the  bounds  of  charity ;  his- 
divinity  is  composed  of  these  two  elements — wonder 
and   love. 


RICHAUD  HOOKER 


The  Anglican  position  at  the  close  of  Elizabeth's  reign 
is  defined  in  the  writings  of  Hooker ;  more  than  this, 
the  best  temper  of  English  thought  is  exemplified  in 
his  work.  The  spirit  of  the  Renaissance  is  brought  into 
harmony  by  him  with  the  spirit  of  the  Reformation  ;  he 
is  serious,  reverent,  devout ;  w4th  seriousness  and  rever- 
ence he  does  honour  to  human  reason  ;  a  grave  feeling 
for  beauty  moulds  his  elaborate  periods ;  he  can  soar 
and  circle  aloft  in  a  wide  orbit,  yet  all  the  time  he 
remains  in  living  relation  with  concrete  fact  and  the 
realities  of  human  life ;  he  is  at  once  humanist  and 
theologian. 

Through  Izaac  Walton's  delightful  biography  we  are 
familiar  with  the  man.  Walton,  with  much  seemino^ 
simplicity  or  naivete  of  style,  was  an  artist  in  his  craft ; 
he  had  formed  a  definite  conception  of  what  Hooker 
was,  or  what  he  ought  to  be  for  the  purposes  of 
biography.  A  great  scholar  and  thinker,  his  greatness 
was  to  be  enhanced  by  something  like  insignificance  in 
his  outward  aspect.  Not  that  he  was  in  any  sense 
really  insignificant,  but  his  exceeding  meekness  and 
humility,  together  with  a  bodily  presence  which  was  not 
impressive,  are  used  by  Walton's  art  to  throw  out  his 
intellectual  and  moral  greatness.      Keble,  in  his  edition 

69 


yo  Richard  Hooker 

of  Hooker's  works,  qualifies  Walton's  view  by  adding^ 
that  meekness  and  patience  were  by  no  means  con- 
stitutional with  Hooker :  ''  Like  Moses,  to  whom 
Walton  compares  him,  he  was  by  nature  extremely 
sensitive,  quick  in  feeling  any  sort  of  unfairness,  and 
thoroughly  aware  of  his  own  power  to  chastise  it ;  so 
that  his  forbearance  .  .  .  must  have  been  the  result 
of  strong  principle  and  unwearied  self-control.  Again, 
Walton  or  his  informants  appear  to  have  considered 
Hooker  as  almost  childishly  ignorant  of  human  nature 
and  of  the  ordinary  business  of  life  :  whereas  his  writ- 
ings throughout  betray  uncommon  shrewdness  and 
quickness  of  observation,  and  a  vein  of  the  keenest 
humour  runs  through  them."  We  cannot  quite  be 
brought  even  by  an  editor's  enthusiasm  to  regard  the 
author  of  ''The  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity"  as  an 
Elizabethan  humourist,  but  he  was  master,  when  he 
pleased,  of  a  certain  restrained  irony.  Let  us  think  of 
him,  among  his  fellow-divines  of  the  Anglican  com- 
munion, as  the  Elizabethan  incarnation  of  that  stranger 
who  in  the  days  of  the  Oxford  movement  reappeared  as 
Newman's  guest  and  lives  for  us  in  Newman's  sonnet  : 

Courteous  he  was  and  grave — so  meek  of  mien 
It  seem'd  untrue,  or  told  a  purpose  weak  ; 
Yet  in  the  mood  he  could  with  aptness  speak, 
Or  with  stern  force,  or  show  of  feelings  keen, 
Marking  deep  craft  methought,  or  hidden  pride  : 
Then  came  a  voice, — "  Saint  Paul  is  at  thy  side." 

But  Hooker's  logic  is  less  emotional  than  the  true  Saint 
Paul's,  and  he  never  glows  with  as  bright  an  ardour  of 
charity. 

Hooker's   complexion,    says   Walton, — and    we   must. 


Richard  Hooker  7 1 

attend  to  such  hints  of  a  rude  physical  psychology — 
was  sanguine  with  a  mixture  of  choler ;  yet  even  in 
youth  his  speech  and  movements  were  grave  and  de- 
liberate. As  a  boy  he  was  distinguished  by  the  union 
of  a  questioning  intellect  with  habitual  modesty  and 
"  a  serene  quietness  of  nature."  He  was  never,  Walton 
declares,  known  to  be  angry,  or  passionate,  or  extreme 
in  any  of  his  desires  ;  he  was  never  heard  to  repine  or 
dispute  with  Providence.  No  man,  he  would  say,  ever 
repented  him  upon  his  death-bed  of  moderation,  charity, 
humility,  obedience  to  authority,  peace  to  mankind. 
"  There  will  come  a  time,"  wrote  Hooker,  "  when  three 
words  uttered  with  charity  and  meekness  shall  receive 
a  far  more  blessed  reward  than  three  thousand  volumes 
written  with  disdainful  sharpness  of  wit."  In  reply  to 
the  violence  of  a  controversial  adversary  his  word  is 
formidable  in  its  moderation:  "Your  next  argument 
consists  of  railing  and  of  reasons ;  to  your  railing  I  say 
nothing  ;  to  your  reasons  I  say  what  follows."  Begging 
to  be  removed  from  the  Mastership  of  the  Temple,  ''  My 
Lord,"  he  wrote  to  the  Archbishop,  "  when  I  lost  the 
freedom  of  my  cell,  which  was  my  college,  yet  I  found 
some  degree  of  it  in  my  quiet  country  parsonage  ;  but 
I  am  weary  of  the  noise  and  oppositions  of  this  place, 
and  indeed  God  and  nature  did  not  intend  me  for  con- 
tentions, but  for  study  and  quietness."  His  desire,  he 
says,  was  to  keep  himself  in  peace  and  privacy,  to 
behold  God's  blessing  spring  out  of  his  mother  earth, 
and  to  eat  his  own  bread  without  oppositions. 

To  conduct  a  campaign  of  controversy  in  the  interests 
of  peace  —  it  is   a  rare    achievement ;   to    possess   the 


7  2  Richard  Hooker 

magnanimity  which  does  not  seek  to  score  points 
against  an  antagonist,  which  does  not  triumph  in  put- 
ting an  opponent  to  shame — it  is  a  high  distinction. 
The  rasfe  of  theolosfians  in  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth  centuries  strikes  our  ear  as  terribly  as  that 
hollow  burst  of  bellowing  "  like  bulls  or  rather  lions  " 
which  alarmed  Shakespeare's  conspirators  on  the  en- 
chanted island.  Hooker  was  deeply  concerned  on 
behalf  of  the  cause  which  he  had  undertaken  to 
defend  ;  he  gave  his  whole  mind  to  the  great  debate  ; 
his  love  of  peace  was  not  a  lethargic  complacency  or  a 
dull  wooing  of  ease  ;  but  he  desired  to  bring  his  oppon- 
ents, if  possible,  to  an  honourable  surrender ;  he  saw 
the  questions  in  dispute  in  relation  to  first  principles 
on  which  an  agreement  might  be  230ssible,  and  which 
made  the  personal  passions  of  controversy  dwindle  ; 
possessed  by  a  profound  reverence  for  order,  he  felt 
that  intemperance  or  breach  of  charity  would  ill  become 
one  who  attempted  to  expound  the  divine  idea  of  order. 
This  magnanimous  combatant  in  his  quiet  parsonage 
at  Canterbury  was  already  famous.  Scholars,  as  Walton 
tells  us,  turned  out  of  their  way  to  see  the  man  whose 
life  and  learning  were  so  much  admired — no  stately 
personage  to  look  on,  but  ''an  obscure,  harmless  man; 
a  man  in  poor  clothes,  his  loins  usually  girt  in  a  coarse 
gown  or  canonical  coat ;  of  a  mean  stature,  and  stoop- 
ing, and  yet  more  lowly  in  the  thoughts  of  his  soul ; 
his  body  worn  out,  not  with  age,  but  study  and  holy 
mortifications."  In  the  pulpit  he  was  never  vehement ; 
he  used  no  graceful  gestures  of  the  orator ;  his  dim  eyes 
remained,  from  first  to  last,  fixed  upon  one  spot ;  *'  he 


Richard  Hooker  J  2) 

seemed  to  study  as  he  spake  "  ;  his  voice  was  grave  and 
tranquil ;  "his  style,"  says  Fuller,  "  was  long,"  that  is, 
involved,  "  and  pithy,  drawing  on  a  whole  flock  of 
several  clauses  before  he  came  to  the  end  of  a  sen- 
tence," so  that  to  some  hearers  he  seemed  tedious  and 
obscure.  To  the  close  of  his  life  Hooker  remained  the 
student  and  the  thinker.  When  during  his  last  illness 
robbers  plundered  his  house,  the  sick  man's  inquiry  was, 
''  Are  my  books  and  papers  safe  ? "  The  property  in- 
herited by  his  wife  and  daughters,  to  the  value  of  a 
thousand  pounds,  was  in  great  part  made  up  by  his 
library.  His  friend  Dr  Saravia,  standing  by  the  bedside, 
asked  what  was  now  occupying  his  mind  (for  Hooker's 
face  wore  its  contemplative  aspect),  "  to  which  he  re- 
plied that  he  was  meditating  the  number  and  nature  of 
anofels,  and  their  blessed  obedience  and  order,  without 
which  peace  could  not  be  in  heaven  ;  and  oh,  that  it 
might  be  so  on  earth  !  "  In  another  of  Walton's  familiar 
records  it  is  the  humanist  rather  than  the  theologian 
who  is  presented ;  former  pupils  of  Hooker  visiting  him 
found  their  master  tending  his  small  allotment  of  sheep, 
with  a  book — the  "  Odes  of  Horace  "  —  in  his  hand. 
A  contemporary  of  Shakespeare  and  Spenser  and  of 
that  choir  of  singers  who  made  tuneful  the  closing 
years  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  Hooker  was  no  stranger,  we 
are  assured,  "  to  the  more  light  and  airy  parts  of  learn- 
ing— as  music  and  poetry." 

The  marriage  into  which  Hooker  unwisely  allowed 
himself  to  be  drawn  was  not  fortunate,  but  Walton, 
to  exalt  his  meek  hero,  seems  to  make  the  worst  of 
what  he  had  learnt  by  hearsay.      The  gravest  charges 


74  Richard  Hooker 

that  can  be  brought  against  Hooker's  wife  are  that 
she  perhaps  allowed  her  Puritan  friends  to  tamper  with 
the  papers  entrusted  to  her — who  was  she  to  doubt 
their  superior  learning  and  wisdom  ? — and  that,  after 
a  fashion  not  without  precedents  in  her  day,  she  posted 
with  speed  to  a  second  marriage.  She  was  guilty,, 
indeed,  of  the  high  crime  and  misdemeanour  of  calling 
upon  Richard  to  rock  the  cradle.  Richard  could  not 
have  had  a  sweeter  employment;  he  was  precisely  in 
the  place  assigned  to  him  in  the  divine  order  of  the 
universe,  as  rightly  interpreted  by  Mistress  Joan ; 
and  while  he  lulled  his  infant  daughter  to  sleep,. 
Richard  might  appropriately  have  meditated  on  the 
number  and  the  order  of  the  Holy  Innocents.  The 
wife  of  an  exalted  scholar  cannot  always  maintain  the 
adoring  attitude  assumed  by  her  husband's  passing 
admirers.  The  fact  that  Hooker,  whose  estate  was 
valued  at  the  considerable  sum  of  over  one  thousand 
pounds,  appointed  her  his  sole  executrix  and  residuary 
legatee,  indicates  the  trust  which  he,  who  best  could 
judge,  reposed  in  her.  The  only  authentic  portrait  of 
Hooker  is  the  bust  in  the  parish  church  where  he  lies 
buried.  "  It  is,"  wrote  Dean  Stanley,  "  of  the  same 
style  and  form  as  the  nearly  contemporary  one  of 
Shakespeare  in  the  church  of  Stratford-on-Avon.  Un- 
like that  more  famous  monument,  this  has  the  good 
fortune  to  have  retained  the  colour  without  white- 
wash. ...  It  represents  Hooker  in  his  college  cap,  his 
hair  black,  without  a  tinge  of  grey,  his  forehead  high 
and  broad  and  overhanging,  lively,  piercing  eyes,  deepset 
beneath  it,  his  cheeks  ruddy,  and  a  powerful  mouth." 


Richard  Hooker  75 


11 

"We  need  not  follow  Walton  through  his  record 
of  the  events  in  a  scholar's  uneventful  life.  The  only 
incident  that  must  be  noted  is  the  controversy  with 
Travers  which  gave  its  origin  to  the  "  Laws  of 
Ecclesiastical  Polity."  When  in  1584  Richard  Alvey, 
Master  of  the  Temple,  died,  it  was  expected  that 
according  to  his  wish  the  afternoon  lecturer,  Walter 
Travers,  a  good  and  learned  man,  a  popular  preacher 
and  a  leader  among  the  Puritans,  would  have  been 
appointed  as  his  successor.  Archbishop  Whitgift, 
who  had  himself  been  engaged  in  controversy  with 
Cartwright,  was  no  favourer  of  Puritanical  discipline. 
The  Mastership  was  given,  by  way  of  a  compromise 
between  contending  parties,  to  Hooker.  Travers  was 
still  the  evening  preacher,  and  an  unseemly  dissonance, 
doctrinal  rather  than  personal,  arose  in  the  teaching  at 
the  Temple  ;  ''the  pulpit,"  in  the  often  quoted  words 
of  Fuller,  "  spake  pure  Canterbury  in  the  morning  and 
Geneva  in  the  afternoon."  The  cono^reojation  ebbed 
from  Canterbury  and  flowed  to  eloquent  Geneva. 
*'  What  Mr  Hooker  delivered  in  the  forenoon,  Mr 
Travers  confuted  in  the  afternoon.  At  the  building 
of  Solomon's  temple  neither  hammer,  nor  axe,  nor  tool 
of  iron  was  heard  therein  ;  whereas,  alas  !  in  this 
Temple,  not  only  much  knocking  was  heard,  but  (which 
was  the  worst)  the  nails  and  pins  which  one  master- 
builder  drave  in  were  driven  out  by  the  other."  The 
Archbishop  therefore  took  energetic  action :  on  the  ground 
that  Travers  had  received  orders  from  the  Presbytery 


76  Richard  Hooker 

of  Antwerp,  that  he  preached  without  a  license,  and 
engaged  in  controversies  against  an  order  of  Her  Majesty, 
he  was  peremptorily  silenced.  When  about  to  go  into 
the  pulpit,  he  received  from  the  hand  of  a  sorry  fellow 
the  letter  of  prohibition.  Travers  calmly  explained  the 
matter  to  the  assembly,  which  dispersed,  not  without 
frowns  and  murmurs,  and  shakings  of  the  head.  A 
petition  of  Travers  to  the  Privy  Council  was  overborne 
by  Whitgift's  influence.  In  the  controversy  which 
arose  between  him  and  Hooker  neither  lost  respect  for 
the  other  or  self-respect.  Travers  quitted  London  to 
receive  the  provostship  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and 
Hooker  began  to  meditate  his  great  treatise  on  the 
authority  and  order  of  the  Church. 

A  word  is  necessary  to  explain  the  state  in  which 
the  "  Ecclesiastical  Polity "  has  reached  us.  It  w^as 
designed  to  consist  of  eight  Books  ;  of  these,  four  were 
published  by  the  author  as  a  first  instalment,  probably 
in  the  year  1594  ;  the  fifth  Book,  which  is  longer  than 
the  preceding  four  taken  together,  appeared  with  the 
advantage  of  Hooker's  superintendence  in  1597.  Three 
years  later  Hooker  died.  The  so-called  sixth  Book  and. 
the  eighth  were  first  published  half  a  century  after- 
wards in  1648  ;  the  seventh  was  issued  under  the  care 
of  Bishop  Gauden  in  1662.  The  history  of  Hooker's 
manuscripts  reminds  us  of  that  of  the  sermons  of 
Bossuet.  The  sixth  Book,  which  was  to  have  dealt 
with  the  subject  of  lay  eldership,  is  in  fact  lost;  what 
is  called  ''  Book  VI.,"  though  derived  from  Hooker's 
notes,  forms  in  the  main  no  true  portion  of  the 
■"'  Ecclesiastical  Polity."     The  seventh  Book  undoubtedly 


Richard  Hooker  7  7 

comes  from  Hooker's  hand,  but  it  is  mutilated,  thanks, 
perhaps,  to  the  pious  care  of  Mrs  Hooker's  Puritan 
friends  and  relations.  The  eighth  and  last  Book  was 
presented  in  editions  which  precede  that  of  Keble  in  an 
imperfect  condition ;  by  Keble's  diligence  it  was  re- 
constructed and  restored  on  the  basis  of  manuscripts 
in  Oxford,  Cambridge,  Lambeth,  and  Trinity  College, 
Dublin.  Thus  to  the  close  of  the  fifth  Book  we  are 
on  safe  ground  ;  in  reading  the  later  Books  there  is 
necessarily  some  sense  of  insecurity ;  even  if  through 
them  we  come  to  know  Hooker's  mind  on  the  subjects 
of  which  they  treat,  it  is  still  open  to  question  whether 
his  whole  mind  is  there  expressed. 

The  development  of  the  English  Church  of  the  Re- 
formation, like  that  of  the  English  constitution,  was 
historical  rather  than  looical.  No  o-reat  theological 
and  ecclesiastical  systematiser,  like  Calvin,  presided 
over  its  early  years.  In  this  there  were  sources  of 
weakness,  but  also  sources  of  strength.  Shaped  to  a 
considerable  extent  by  a  kind  of  opportunism,  political 
as  well  as  religious,  it  could  not  possess  entire  logical 
self-consistency  and  perfect  coherence.  But  it  had 
a  unity  of  life,  if  not  an  absolute  unity  of  idea. 
It  did  not  wholly  break  with  the  old  faith ;  it 
did  not  reject  new  developments ;  it  received  in- 
fluences from  tradition  and  the  past;  it  received 
influences  from  Luther ;  it  received  influences  from 
Calvin.  At  its  best  the  Church  of  England  has 
been  of  the  nature  of  a  federal  union  between  groups 
of  believers  in  a  common  Christianity,  whose  diverging 
opinions    in    detail    are    wholly    incapable    of    logical 


78  Richard  Hooker 

conciliation ;  at  its  worst  it  has  attempted  to  estab- 
lish the  unity  of  an  idea,  a  theory,  or  a  system, 
a,nd  has  denied  the  right  of  citizenship  to  its  lawful 
children,  shedding  large  portions  of  its  population  to 
found  those  colonies,  disdainfully  named  sects,  which 
<;onstitute  a  no  less  genuine  part  of  the  religious 
life  of  the  nation.  We  are  assured  by  recent  ecclesi- 
astical historians  that  Calvinism  is  irreconcilable  with 
the  idea  of  the  Church ;  as  a  historical  fact  the 
Church  of  England  has  been  Calvinist,  and  Arminian, 
and  Latitudinarian,  and  Evangelical,  and  Sacramen- 
tarian.  Its  unity  has  been  not  the  unity  of  an  idea 
but  that  of  a  living  organism.  Burke  has  spoken 
somewhere  of  the  "'  clumsy  subtlety "  of  the  French 
constitution-mongers  of  the  period  of  the  Revolution. 
A  theory  —  Calvinistic  or  Anglo-Catholic  —  may  be 
elaborate  and  ingenious,  but  still  it  may  be  clumsy 
as  compared  with  the  incalculable  complexity  of  life. 
Let  the  rival  doctrines  be  as  uncompromising  as 
doctrine  needs  must  be  ;  compromises  do  not  really 
conciliate.  The  life  of  the  national  Church  as  a 
federal  union  can  embrace  both  ecclesiastical  Tory 
and  ecclesiastical  Whig.  "  Bishop  is  not  like  bishop," 
wrote  Newman,  ''  more  than  king  is  like  king,  or 
ministry  like  ministry,"  and  therefore  he  could  feel 
no  interest  "  of  any  kind  in  the  National  Church, 
nor  put  any  trust  in  it  at  all  from  its  past  history, 
as  if  it  were,  in  however  narrow  a  sense,  a  guardian 
of  orthodoxy."  The  fact,  as  stated  by  Newman,  is 
historically  true ;  and  therefore  we  feel  the  deeper 
interest   in   the    National   Church,  and    put   the   fuller 


Richard  Hooker  79 

trust   in   it   as  a  guardian  of  one  great  portion  of  the 
religions  life  of  the   English  people. 

Keeping    a    middle   way  of  its  own,  the  Church  of 
England    moved   between    two    systems   which    seemed 
each    to    have   greater   coherence  and   more  of   logical 
consistency  —  the    Roman    Catholic    system    and    the 
system  of    extreme  and  rigid   Puritanism.      The  spirit 
of    Puritanism,   like    that    of   the    French    Revolution, 
was     the     reverse     of     historical.       But    whereas     the 
theorists    of   the    French    Revolution   based    their   new 
constitutions  on  ideas  or  supposed  ideas  of   the  reason, 
Puritanism   sought  for  its   basis,  and  indeed  its  super- 
structure  also,   in    the    written   Word.      N'ot    only   was 
all    sound    doctrine    to    be    derived    directly   from    the 
infallible    Book,   but    all   lawful    discipline   was    to    be 
found  within  the  covers  of  the  Old  and  the  New  Testa- 
ments.     All    merely    human    expediencies    in    matters 
ecclesiastical  were  in    theory  (though   not   in  fact)  re- 
jected  as    illegitimate.      At   every  point,   in    theory   at 
least,    an    appeal   w^as    made    to    the   law    and    to   the 
testimony.      With   a   deep  sense   of   the   inwardness  of 
religion,   Puritanism    regarded    the   external   apparatus, 
which  to  the   Catholic  seemed    avenues  and   inlets  for 
the   Divine  influence,  not  as  avenues   but  as   barriers. 
With   a   deep  sense   that   religion    is  an  affair  between 
the    individual    and    his    awful     Creator    and    Judge, 
Puritanism    conceived    the    Church    as    an    assemblage 
of  elect  and  sanctified  souls,  each  in  direct  and  personal 
relation   to   the   invisible,   rather   than    as   a  great    in 
corporation  of    those   who    had    been   baptised    in    the 
sacred   names.      The    Elizabethan    Church,   maintaining 


8o  Richard  Hooker 

a  balance  between  powers  never  perhaps  completely 
harmonised,  was  a  Reformed  Church,  but  it  preserved 
continuity  with  the  past ;  it  was  a  Protestant  com- 
munion which  claimed  to  be  Catholic ;  it  asserted  the 
right  of  private  judgment,  but  it  respected  authority ; 
it  appealed  to  Scripture,  but  it  also  recognised  the 
living  voice  of  the  Church  ;  it  possessed  a  strong  ele- 
ment of  individualism,  but  it  restrained  caprice  and 
the  extravagance  of  private  inspiration.  In  a  word, 
if  it  had  not  the  unity  of  a  logical  system,  it  had 
the  comprehensiveness  of  a  rich  and  varied  life.  The 
scriptural  dogmatism  of  the  Puritan  party  is  power- 
fully expressed  in  the  writings  of  Whitgift's  erudite 
antagonist,  Cartwright.  The  more  liberal  spirit  of 
the  Anglican  communion  is  reflected  in  the  pages  of 
the  "  Ecclesiastical  Polity." 

\  The  special  characteristic  of  Hooker's  intellect  is 
its  comprehensive  grasp  of  a  large  body  of  truth. 
The  controversy  of  the  time  dealt  much  with  matters 
of  detail — the  vestments  of  the  clergy,  the  dedication, 
the  naming,  the  sumptuousness  of  churches,  the  form 
of  the  liturgy,  the  length  of  the  service,  the  petition 
for  deliverance  from  sudden  death,  the  prayer  that 
all  men  may  find  mercy,  the  sign  of  the  cross  in 
baptism,  the  rites  of  burial,  the  authority  of  bishops, 
and  a  hundred  other  questions.  Hooker  does  not 
decline  the  consideration  of  questions  small  or  great. 
He  goes  perhaps  even  too  laboriously  into  detail  ; 
but  all  these  details  connect  themselves  in  his  mind 
with  large,  general  principles.  He  is  capable  of  sys- 
tem, but,  being   in    contact  with    concrete   fact,  he   is 


Richard  Hooker  8 1 

systematic  without  rigidity.  He  does  honour  to  human 
reason  as  a  source  of  truth,  yet  he  has  none  of  the 
arrogance  or  the  dogmatism  of  some  rationalists.  He 
has  a  deep  feeling  of  the  inwardness  of  religion,  yet 
he  does  not  disregard  its  external  forms,  finding  in 
the  senses  powers  which  may  be  auxiliar  to  things 
divine.  He  reverences  the  past,  and  would  build  to- 
day on  the  foundation  of  yesterday,  yet  he  leaves 
space  and  scope  for  the  new  developments  of  to- 
morrow. He  condemns  superstition,  yet  he  finds  that 
truth  is  often  intertwisted  with  error ;  he  seeks  for 
general  truths,  but,  like  Edmund  Burke,  he  is  a 
diligent  observer  of  circumstances,  "  the  loose  regard 
whereof  is  the  nurse  of  vulgar  folly " ;  his  temper, 
like  the  temper  of  Burke,  is  that  of  a  liberal  con- 
servatism. 

in 

The  cardinal  principle  of  Hooker's  Puritan  opponents 
was  the  sole  and  exclusive  authority  of  Scripture;  all 
laws  found  in  Scripture  are  of  permanent  and  universal 
force  ;  no  law  derived  from  any  other  original  can  be  of 
permanent  obligation.  The  cardinal  principle  of  Hooker, 
as  Dean  Church  correctly  expressed  it,  is  the  concurrence 
and  co-operation,  each  m  its  due  place,  of  all  possible 
means  of  knowledge  for  men's  direction.  "  Take  which 
you  please,"  Dean  Church  goes  on,  ''reason  or  Scripture, 
your  own  reason  or  that  of  others,  private  judgment  cr 
general  consent,  one  i[)rcsu]^i[)Oses — it  is  a  favourite  word 
with  Hooker — the  existence  of  others,  and  it  is  not 
intended  to  do  its  work  of  illumination  and   guidance 

F 


8  2  Richard  Hooker 

without  them  ;  and  the  man  who  elects  to  go  by  one 
alone  will  assuredly  find  in  the  end  that  he  has  gone 
wrong."  The  position  is  eminently  reasonable ;  far  more 
reasonable  than  the  Puritan  position.  But  we  can  readily 
understand  how  Protestantism  in  the  appalling  loss  of 
the  infallibility  of  Rome  threw  itself,  through  the  instinct 
of  a  supreme  need,  upon  the  infallibility  of  Scripture,  and 
was  compelled  to  add  as  a  corollary  the  declaration  of 
Luther  that  the  Bible  "  so  far  as  is  necessary  for  salvation 
is  clear  enough,"  and  that  it  "  belongs  to  each  and  to 
every  Christian  to  know  and  to  judge  of  doctrine."  And 
it  was  natural  that  this  acceptance  of  Scripture  as  a  final 
authority  in  doctrine  should  extend  itself  to  discipline 
and  to  ceremony. 

Before  proceeding  to  discuss  any  matters  of  detail. 
Hooker  sets  himself  to  consider  the  ground  and  origin  of 
all  law,  the  nature  of  that  order  which  presides  over  the 
universe,  over  the  external  cosmos  and  human  society, 
and  to  determine  the  principle  which  renders  certain  laws 
of  permanent  and  others  of  temporary  obligation.  The 
first  Book,  accordingly,  is  rather  philosophical  than  theo- 
logical ;  it  presents  a  majestic  conception  of  the  world 
as  existing  under  a  reign  of  law — law  not  arbitrary  but 
an  expression  of  the  Divine  reason.  Hooker's  method 
is  not  that  of  wrangling  over  texts,  but  of  first  grasping 
general  principles,  and  afterwards  of  viewing  particulars, 
with  a  full  regard  to  circumstances,  in  the  light  of  those 
principles.  It  is  not  the  shortest  way  of  controversy  ; 
but  Hooker  is  more  than  a  controversialist ;  he  is  a 
master-builder.  He  admits  that  such  delving  and  diving 
towards  the  roots  and  foundations  of  things  may  be  ob- 


Richa7'd  Hooker"  83 

jected  to  as  involving  the  thinker  in  obscurity;  but  it 
becomes  necessary  in  order  that  the  whole  edifice  may 
be  well  based  and  secure.  ^'  The  stateliness  of  houses, 
the  goodliness  of  trees,  when  we  behold  thera  delighteth 
the  eye  ;  but  that  foundation  which  beareth  up  the  one, 
that  root  which  ministereth  unto  the  other  nourishment 
and  life  is  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth  concealed ;  and  if 
there  be  at  any  time  occasion  to  search  into  it,  such 
labour  is  then  more  necessary  than  pleasant,  both  to 
them  which  undertake  it  and  to  the  lookers-on." 
The  portion  of  his  treatise  for  which  Hooker  offers 
an  apology  is  that  which  has  especially  given  it  a 
permanent  interest  for  minds  which  are  other  than 
ecclesiastical. 

Hooker's  conception  of  the  universe,  and  of  the  order 
which  presides  throughout  and  over  it,  is  theistic.      For 
him  the  word  law  means  not  a  general  statement  of  the 
changes  or  uniformities  of  phenomena,  but  a  manifestation 
of  the  Divine  will.     The  fountain  of  law  is  God  Himself. 
Hooker's  attitude  of  reverence  is  that  of  one  who  gazes 
upward  and  also  bows  the  head.      Neither  can  we  com- 
prehend the   Most  High,   nor  can  we   escape  from  His 
presence  though    we  fly  to  the   uttermost   ends  of  the 
earth — ''Whom,  although   to  know  be  life,  and  joy  to 
make  mention  of  His  name,  yet  our  soundest  knowledge 
is  to  know  that  we  know  Him   not  as  indeed   He  is, 
neither  can   know  Him  ;   and   our  safest  eloquence  con- 
cerning Him  is  our  silence,    when  we  confess  without 
confession  that  His  glory  is  inexplicable.  His  greatness 
above  our  capacity  and  reach.      He  is  above,  and  we 
upon  earth ;  therefore  it  behoveth  our  words  to  be  wary 


84  Richard  Hooker 

and  few."  If,  however,  we  are  to  think  of  God  at  all,, 
we  must  represent  the  Unknowable  to  ourselves  through 
our  highest  faculties.  We  must  think  of  Him,  not  as 
an  arbitrary  tyrant,  ruling  His  creatures  by  caprice,  but 
as  a  Will  freely  accepting  reason  as  its  rule  ;  His  wisdom 
has  set  bounds  to  the  effects  of  His  power.  This  reason^ 
this  wisdom — the  rule  of  God's  being — which  Hooker 
terms  "  the  first  eternal  law  " — goes  forth  from  God  to 
become  operative  upon  all  His  creatures  visible  and  in- 
visible, angels  of  heaven,  moving  worlds,  stars  and  sun^ 
wind  and  rain,  the  clods  of  the  field  and  the  waves  of 
the  sea,  the  beast  of  the  field,  and  man  as  an  individual 
and  in  societies ;  constituting  thus  the  ''  second  law 
eternal."  It  cannot  but  be  that  "  Nature  hath  some 
director  of  infinite  knowledge  to  guide  her  in  all  her 
ways."      In  Him  we  live,  and  move,  and  are. 

But  what  is  the  special  character  of  this  law  as  im- 
pressed upon  the  spirit  of  man?  Hooker's  answer  is  the 
same  as  that  uttered  with  ardour  for  our  own  generation 
in  many  of  Browning's  most  characteristic  poems;  the 
law  of  man's  being  is  that  it  shall  perpetually  aspire  to 
perfection,  that  it  shall  constantly  tend  upwards  to  God. 
Man's  intellect  aspires  to  knowledge  ;  man's  will  aspires 
to  goodness.  And  these  two  tendencies  are  intimately 
connected,  for  in  order  that  our  will  should  seek  after 
goodness,  goodness  must  first  be  discerned  by  the  reason. 
Should  our  attempt  to  identify  what  is  best  and  highest 
bv  a  study  of  its  inmost  nature  and  its  essential  causes 
only  lead  us  into  perplexity,  we  may  yet  recognise  it  by 
sio-ns  or  tokens,  of  which  the  most  trustworthy  is  the 
common    consent  of    men   at   all  times   and   under   all 


Richard  Hooker  85 

-conditions  of  life  :   "  The  general  and  perpetual  voice  of 
men  is  as  the  sentence  of  God  Himself." 

Eeason  is,  then,  our  guide  to  the  discovery  of  what  is 
good ;  and  we  support,  supplement,  control  our  private 
judgment  by  the  collective  reason  of  mankind.  Thus 
may  be  ascertained  those  natural  laws  which  should 
govern  man's  life  as  an  individual.  But  merely  as  an 
individual  no  man  can  attain  to  the  perfection  of  his 
nature.  He  is  a  sociable  being,  who  stands  in  need  of 
the  aid  of  his  fellows.  Hence  political  communities  are 
formed;  hence  governments  are  established  upon  a  basis 
of  common  consent.  The  particular  form  of  government, 
monarchy,  oligarchy,  democracy,  Hooker  regards  as  a 
matter  of  political  expediency.  He  had  not  learnt,  like 
the  High  Churchmen  of  the  next  generation,  the  doctrine 
•of  the  Divine  rio^hts  of  kinoes  ;  rather  he  insists  that 
under  every  form  of  government  the  consent  of  those 
who  are  governed  is  essential;  otherwise  what  is  called 
a  government  becomes  in  fact  a  tyranny.  In  the  time 
•of  the  Tudors  he  anticipated  the  political  teaching  of 
Locke. 

So  far  as  has  been  set  forth  man  seeks  his  perfection 
by  the  light  of  reason.  But  his  desire  for  good  is 
infinite,  a  desire  which  can  be  completely  satisfied  by 
nothing  less  than  the  union  of  his  own  life  with  the  life 
of  God.  We  seek  a  threefold  perfection — sensual  in 
the  necessaries  and  the  ornaments  of  our  material  exist- 
ence ;  intellectual  in  the  possession  of  truth  ;  and  last, 
2.  spiritual  perfection  in  the  attainment  of  things  only 
to  be  reached  by  ways  which  are  above  and  beyond 
mature   in  the  ordinary   meaning  of   that   word.      The 


86  Richard  Hooker 

laws  which  regulate  man's  supernatural  duties  are  de« 
livered  by  revealed  religion.  Reason,  however,  is  not 
displaced  by  revelation  ;  it  is  reason  which  warrants 
our  admission  of  the  claims  of  revealed  truth ;  and, 
indeed,  many  natural  laws  are  repromulgated  by  the- 
revealed  word,  in  order  that  what  is  obscure  may  be- 
made  clear,  and  that  further  sanctions  may  be  added. 
Every  natural  law,  whether  it  concerns  man  as  an 
individual  or  men  in  society,  is  of  permanent  obligation. 
Positive  laws,  although  imposed  by  Divine  authority, 
are  not  of  necessity  invariable. 

We  are  at  length  brought  to  the  point  at  w^hich  the- 
connection  of  all  that  had  gone  before  with  the  Puritan 
controversy  becomes  apparent.  Positive  laws  fall  into- 
two  classes ;  laws,  in  the  first  place,  which  refer  to  men 
as  men,  without  regard  to  time  or  circumstances,  and 
these,  although  positive,  having  been  once  promulgated, 
remain  of  perpetual  and  universal  authority ;  laws,  in 
the  second  place,  which  refer  to  temporary  conditions,. 
circumstances,  or  affairs,  and  such  laws,  though  of  Divine 
imposition,  have  no  more  permanence  than  the  matter 
with  which  they  are  concerned. 

Thus,  while  his  Puritan  adversaries  asserted  that  no 
law  which  is  not  found  in  Holy  Scripture  can  be  of 
permanent  obligation,  Hooker  maintains  that  all  those 
natural  laws  discovered  to  us  by  human  reason  are 
binding  upon  man  as  long  as  he  is  man.  And  again, 
while  his  Puritan  adversaries  asserted  that  every  rule 
and  regulation  found  in  Scripture  is  therefore  a  law  for 
all  time,  Hooker  maintains  that  such  regulations  may 
indeed  be  valid  for  ever,  but  may  also  be  temporary  and 


Richard  Hooker  87 

variable  ;  their  abiding  validity  depends  not  on  the  fact 
that  they  are  declared  and  delivered  by  the  voice  of  God, 
but  on  the  character  of  the  laws  themselves  ;  if  they  deal 
with  things  that  are  unchanging,  they  are  themselves 
unchanging ;  if  they  deal  with  matter  that  is  transitory, 
they  also  are  transitory. 

To  degrade  human  reason  and  to  set  up  Scripture  as 
the  sole  and  sufficient  rule  of  life,  though  it  may  wear 
the  appearance  of  humble  piety,  is  in  truth  a  disguised 
arrogance,  which  opposes  its  own  wisdom  to  the  Divine 
wisdom,  manifested  alike  in  human  reason  and  in  revela- 
tion. The  sources  of  truth  are  many  ;  to  discredit  any 
one  of  these  is  to  wronor  our  own  nature  and  to  wroncj- 
the  Divine  order.  It  may  render  hasty  and  violent 
revolution  easier ;  it  is  not  the  way  of  prudent  and 
just  reform. 

IV 

Such,  in  brief,  is  the  substance  of  the  first  book  of 
Hooker's  great  treatise  ;  such  is  Hooker's  temper  of 
liberal- conservatism.  What  is  most  remarkable  through- 
out the  whole  argument  is  not  any  incisiveness  or  any 
originality  of  thought.  Hooker's  originality  lies  rather 
in  his  equable  grasp  of  many  truths,  and  in  his  power 
of  co-ordinating  and  harmonising  those  truths.  He  does 
not  effect  a  breach  between  what  is  natural  and  what  is 
supernatural ;  both  proceed  from  the  same  source  ;  each 
is  auxiliar  to  the  other.  He  does  not  oppose  reason  to 
revelation  ;  both  are  of  celestial  origin.  He  does  not 
discover  a  discordance  between  the  inward  spiritual  life 
of  man  and  the  outward  manifestations  of  that  life  ;   he 


88  Richard  Hooker 

rather  exhibits  their  harmonious  action.  He  does  not 
reduce  religion  to  a  mere  affair  of  the  individual  soul ; 
he  has  a  feeling  for  the  corporate  life  of  society;  each 
man  as  an  individual  has  supernatural  duties  ;  but  he 
is  also  a  member  of  a  great  community  which  has  super- 
natural duties.  He  conceives  the  whole  universe  as  a 
vast  harmonious  system  ;  and  human  creatures,  who,  on 
the  one  side,  are  akin  to  the  beasts  of  the  field,  to  the 
grass  of  the  earth  and  to  the  clay  from  which  it  springs, 
are  on  the  other  side  only  a  little  lower  than  the  angels, 
those  glorious  intelligences  who,  looking  down  upon  the 
children  of  men,  in  their  countenance  "  behold  them- 
selves beneath  themselves."  This  conception  of  the 
cosmos,  its  wonder  and  its  harmony,  is  at  least  a 
majestic  vision,  a  piece  of  the  poetry  of  theology  not 
unworthy  of  the  period  which  mirrored  the  moral  world 
of  man  in  Shakespeare's  plays  and  attempted  a  method 
of  exploring  the  laws  of  the  material  world  in  Bacon's 
''Novum  Organum." 

These  great  masters  of  strategy  were  also  skilled  in 
tactics ;  Bacon  less  skilled  than  either  Shakespeare 
or  Hooker,  for  the  tactics  of  science  were  slow  in  their 
development.  From  his  wide-orbing  survey  of  the 
whole  field.  Hooker  proceeds  to  capture  the  key  of 
the  position.  The  second  Book  is  devoted  to  a  refuta- 
tion of  the  Puritan  thesis  that  Scripture  is  the  only  rule 
of  all  things  which  in  this  life  may  be  done  by  men. 
Hooker's  contention  is  not  against  the  authority  of 
Scripture  ;  it  is  against  narrowing  the  bounds  of  that 
wisdom  Avhich  comes  to  us  through  many  and  diverse 
channels:    ** Whatsoever    either    men  on  earth   or  the 


Richard  Hooker  89 

angels  in  heaven  do  know,  it  is  as  a  drop  of  that  un- 
emptiable  fountain  of  wisdom  ;  which  wisdom  hath 
diversely  imparted  her  treasures  unto  the  world.  .  .  . 
Some  things  she  openeth  by  the  sacred  books  of  Scrip- 
ture ;  some  things  by  the  glorious  works  of  nature  ;  with 
some  things  she  inspireth  them  from  above  by  spiritual 
influence ;  in  some  things  she  leadeth  and  traineth 
them  only  by  worldly  experience  and  practice.  We 
may  not  so  in  any  one  special  kind  admire  her,  that  we 
disgrace  her  in  any  other."  The  liberal  spirit  of  the 
Renaissance,  which  does  honour  to  every  human  faculty, 
reacts  in  Hooker  against  the  narrower  spirit  of  the 
Reformation.  The  argument  is  pressed  home  that 
Scripture,  apart  from  reason,  is  incapable  of  verifying 
itself  as  a  rule  of  life.  The  elephant  may  rest  upon 
the  tortoise,  but  can  the  tortoise  rest  upon  the  void  ? 
''  For  if  one  book  of  Scripture  did  give  testimony  unto 
all,  yet  still  that  Scripture  which  giveth  credit  to  the 
rest  would  require  another  Scripture  to  give  credit  unto 
it,  neither  could  we  ever  come  unto  any  pause  whereon 
to  rest  our  assurance  this  way."  The  audacity  of  Hooker 
as  a  rationalist  is  not  the  less  remarkable  because  it  is 
tranquil  and  unaggressive. 

Among  the  sources  of  wisdom  which  lie  outside  of 
Scripture  one  in  particular  is  justified  by  Hooker — that 
of  human  authority,  the  collective  good  sense  of  many 
minds  ;  "  utterly  to  infringe  the  force  and  strength  of 
man's  testimony  were  to  shake  the  very  fortress  of  God's 
truth."  There  are  degrees  of  certitude  in  knowledge  ; 
the  first  is  that  of  the  senses  (a  statement  which  in 
another   form  gave   much  offence  at  the  time,  and  in 


90  Richard  Hooker 

later  days  startled  Coleridge)  and  that  of  what  Hooker 
terms  "■  intuitive  beholding " ;  the  second  is  founded 
upon  demonstrative  reasoning.  The  authority  not  of 
four  but  of  ten  thousand  general  councils  cannot,  he 
declares,  overthrow  or  resist  a  plain  demonstration. 
But  in  many  things  probability  is  the  rule  of  life,  and 
as  a  guide  to  probable  truth  we  constantly  resort  to 
authority.  Do  we  seek  to  interpret  the  law  found  in 
Scripture  ?  Good  sense  directs  us  to  call  in  the  aid  of 
wise  and  learned  men.  God  in  delivering  Scripture  to 
His  Church  did  not  abrogate  the  methods  of  nature. 
But,  while  thus  maintaining  the  place  due  to  authority. 
Hooker  asserts  the  superior  rights  of  reason  :  "  For  men 
to  be  tried  and  led  by  authority,  as  it  were,  with  a  kind 
of  captivity  of  judgment,  and  though  there  be  reason  to 
the  contrary  not  to  listen  to  it,  but  to  follow  like  beasts 
the  first  in  the  herd,  they  know  not  nor  care  not 
whither,  this  were  brutish.  Again,  that  authority  of 
men  should  prevail  with  men  either  against  or  above 
reason  is  no  part  of  our  belief.  Companies  of  learned 
men,  be  they  never  so  great  and  reverend,  are  to  yield 
unto  reason,  the  weight  whereof  is  no  whit  prejudiced 
by  the  simplicity  of  the  person  which  doth  allege  it." 
In  such  an  utterance  there  may  seem  to  be  nothing 
very  profound  or  very  novel.  But  at  a  time  when  one 
angry  array  of  disputants  overbore  all  private  judgment 
with  authority,  and  another  gave  no  place  to  authority 
in  their  assertion  of  the  right  of  private  judgment, 
such  a  temperate  statement,  bringing  together  the  dis- 
membered fragments  of  truth,  had  the  high  originality 
of  good  sense. 


Richard  Hooker  g  i 

Hooker's  plea  that  ecclesiastical  government  and 
order  are  in  large  part  a  matter  of  expediency  was  a 
plea  for  human  liberty.  At  the  outset  of  the  third 
Book  he  confronts  the  Puritan  conception  of  the  Church 
as  a  congregation  of  elect  souls  with  the  opposite  view 
arising  from  a  recognition  of  the  distinction  between 
the  invisible  Church — the  mystical  body,  a  communion 
of  saints  on  earth  and  of  those  departed  from  earth — 
and  the  visible  Church  comprising  all  those  who  ac- 
knowledge or  profess  one  Lord,  one  faith,  one  baptism. 
According  to  the  Puritan  idea  the  Church  is  an 
imvpermm  in  im2^erio,  a  spiritual  assembly  existing 
within  the  State,  and  in  theory  detached  from  the 
State.  But  what  if  the  saints  should  be  prompted  to 
make  the  will  of  God  prevail  in  the  gross  world  ? 
What  if  they  should  resolve  to  rule  the  earth  ?  With 
Hooker  the  visible  Church  and  the  State  are  a  single 
society  viewed  from  different  sides  :  "  We  mean  by  the 
Commonwealth  that  society  with  relation  unto  all  public 
affairs  thereof,  only  the  matter  of  true  religion  excepted ;. 
by  the  Church,  the  same  society,  with  only  reference 
unto  the  matter  of  true  religion,  without  any  other 
affairs  besides."  Whether  we  accept  such  a  theory  or 
not,  we  cannot  but  admit  that  it  tends  to  mediate 
between  the  dualism  of  spiritual  and  material  interests, 
that  by  a  process  of  levelling  up  and  levellmg  down,  it 
establishes  a  broad  plateau,  where  the  mundane  temper 
may  be  elevated  by  a  constant  regard  for  interests  that 
are  not  merely  mundane,  and  the  ecclesiastical  temper 
may  be  held  in  check  by  worldly  prudence  and  ex- 
perience.     It   provides   a    basis   for  religious  toleration. 


92  Richard  Hooker 

''  Is  it  possible,"  asks  Hooker,  "  that  the  selfsame  men 
should  belong  both  to  the  synagogue  of  Satan  and 
to  the  Church  of  Jesus  Christ  ? "  And  he  replies : 
*'  Unto  that  Church  which  is  His  mystical  body,  not 
possible,"  but  in  the  field  of  the  visible  Church  "  tares 
manifestly  known  and  seen  by  all  men  do  grow  inter- 
mingled with  good  corn,  and  even  so  shall  continue  till 
the  final  consummation  of  the  world."  Even  heretics, 
though  a  maimed  part,  are  still,  Hooker  maintains,  a 
part  of  the  visible  Church.  Excommunicated  persons 
are  not  shut  out  from  the  mystical  Church,  nor  entirely 
from  the  visible  Church,  but  only  from  fellowship  in 
certain  holy  duties. 

The  faith  once  delivered  to  the  saints  is  unaltered  and 
unalterable ;  with  ecclesiastical  regiment  and  order  it  is 
otherwise.  One  and  the  same  polity  may  not  be  ex- 
pedient for  the  several  national  churches.  For  episcopal 
authority  Hooker  had  a  deep  respect ;  he  looked  upon 
the  government  by  bishops  as  primitive,  and  he  regarded 
it  as  an  arrangement  excellent  in  itself.  But  he  did 
not  hold  that  this  form  of  Church  polity  is  necessary. 
He  lamented  that  certain  reformed  churches,  in  par- 
ticular the  Scottish  and  the  French,  had  accepted  what 
seemed  to  him  a  less  admirable  form  of  government, 
and  one,  as  he  believed,  less  in  consonance  with 
Scripture ;  but  their  unfortunate  decision  was  in  no 
sense  fatal — "  men  oftentimes  without  any  fault  of  their 
own  may  be  driven  to  want  that  kind  of  polity  or 
regiment  which  is  best,  and  to  content  themselves  with 
that  which  either  the  irremediable  error  of  former  times, 
or  the  necessity  of  the  present,  hath  cast  upon  them." 


Richard  Hooker  93 

Having  established  the  broad  principle  that  Church 
polity — both  government  and  order — is  a  matter  of 
expediency,  Hooker  enters  on  his  defence  of  the  polity 
of  his  own  church.  One  entire  Book — the  fourth — is 
occupied  with  meeting  the  general  objection  that  the 
national  Church  is  corrupted  with  Popish  orders,  rites, 
and  ceremonies,  which  had  been  banished  from  other 
Reformed  Churches.  It  is  a  vindication  of  the  w^ay  of 
moderation  and  good  sense,  which  is  also  the  way  of 
peace,  as  against  extremes  on  either  side.  Having  set 
forth  his  reasons  of  an  argumentative  kind,  he  closes  by 
attempting  to  show,  as  a  practical  proof  of  the  sound- 
ness of  the  English  method  of  reformation,  that  it  had 
worked  well.  Even  if  fault-finding  should  seem  to  be 
warrantable,  it  may  be  that  suspense  of  judgment  and 
the  exercise  of  charity  are  safer  and  seemlier  than  the 
hot  pursuit  of  controversy,  in  which  the  most  fervent 
disputants  are  not  always  the  persons  best  qualified  to 
arrive  at  just  conclusions. 

The  fifth  Book  proceeds  to  details.  "  In  careful  and 
exhaustive  treatment  it  leads  its  readers " — the  words 
of  Bishop  Barry's  brief  summary  may  here  suffice — 
"  from  the  consideration  of  the  material  fabric  of  our 
Churches,  through  the  discussion  of  the  various  forms 
of  teaching  God's  Word  ;  the  examination  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  a  Liturgy  ;  and  then  of  all  the  various  parts 
and  accessories  of  our  Prayer  Book  worship ;  the 
doctrine  of  the  Sacraments  and  their  forms  of  minis- 
tration ;  the  principles  of  Fast  and  Festival ;  the  de- 
tails of  our  Occasional  Services ;  the  three  Orders, 
and   even   the   accidents  of  our  ministry  and   parochial 


94  Richard  Hooker 

system."  ^      This  is  not  the  place  in  which  such  matters 
of  detail  can  be  discussed. 

Hooker's  liberal  spirit  is  tolerant  of  many  diversities 
of  opinion.      There   is   a   point,  however,  at  which   his 
tolerance  'disappears.      Regarding   true    religion  as  not 
only   the   root    of   the   private   virtues   but  also   as  the 
support  of  all  well-ordered  commonwealths,  he  has  no 
feeling  but  indignation  for  that  atheism  which  is  bred 
rather  from  intellectual  conceit  than  from  rude  ignorance. 
Towards   the   ''  forlorn    creatures "  who    would   sap   the 
foundations    of    all    order   in   the   world    we    are   ''  too 
patient."      They  profess  to  see  a  politic  use  in  religion  ; 
godless  themselves,  they  would   as  a  piece   of  political 
craft  invent   a   God   by  art.      For  such  an   ''  execrable 
creed,"  such  a  "  wicked  brood,"  such  "  wise  malignants," 
Hooker  would  not  shrink  from  making  ready  the  faggot 
and  the  stake.      Towards  the  other  chief  enemy  of  true 
religion,  towards  superstition,  he  is  more  tolerant  than 
many    of    his    contemporaries.       Its    sources    are    zeal, 
unguided    by   sobriety,   and   fear,    which   leads   men  to 
employ   every  means   suggested   by  fancy  to  propitiate 
an  angry  Deity.      From  the  East,  with  its  subtleties  of 
the  intellect,  have  come  the  ingenious  creations  of  super- 
stitious thought ;   from  the  West  have  come  the  cruder 
and  grosser  forms  of  error.      Yet  even  in  many  super- 
stitions that  seem  upon  a  first  view  gross  or  fantastical, 
Hooker   recognises  a   portion    of    truth,    or,    as    Burke 
would  have  called   it,  a  certain   latent  wisdom.      Thus 
the   doctrine   of  the  transmigration  of  souls   contained 
within   an   envelope   of  falsehood,  the  truth   of  human 
^  "  Masters  in  English  Theology,"  edited  by  Alfred  Barry,  D.D,,  p.  36. 


Richard  Hooker  95 

immortality ;  the  belief  in  auguries  drawn  from  the 
■flight  of  birds  or  the  entrails  of  beasts,  contained 
within  it  a  recognition  of  Divine  power  and  providence. 
Hooker's  respect  for  human  intelligence  had  put  him  on 
the  track  of  a  modern  way  of  regarding  the  religions 
of  the  world.  He  did  not  dismiss  them  in  the  manner 
of  many  of  his  own  contemporaries,  as  the  inventions  of 
the  fallen  angels  to  delude  mankind  ;  he  did  not  view 
them,  in  the  manner  of  eighteenth-century  philosophers, 
as  the  frauds  of  priestcraft.  The  false  religions  lived 
by  that  in  them  which  was  true — "  no  religion  can 
wholly  and  only  consist  of  untruths." 

Before  the  revolutionist  ventures  on  the  redress  of 
superstitious  ceremonies  in  the  Church,  there  are  certain 
considerations  which  he  would  do  well  to  bear  in  mind, 
and  which  may  serve  to  temper  his  zeal.  First,  a 
particular  rite  or  ordinance,  though  not  better  than 
some  other  which  can  be  devised,  may  yet  be  fit  and 
convenient ;  this  may  be  the  case  although  certain 
inconveniences  should  also  be  present.  Secondly,  the 
approval  of  past  generations  and  the  long-continued 
practice  of  the  whole  Church  may  indicate  that  some 
fitness  resides  in  things,  even  should  the  fitness  not  be 
at  once  apparent.  Thirdly,  the  Church  is  itself  a  living 
authority,  having  power  to  ordain  new  rites  and  cere- 
monies or  to  ratify  those  that  are  old  ;  her  sentence 
concerning  fitness  and  expediency  is  surely  weightier 
than  any  "  bare  and  naked  conceit  to  the  contrary/^: 
Last,  it  must  be  remembered  that  there  are  evils  which 
must  needs  be  endured,  lest,  if  they  should  be  removed, 
greater  evils  might  take  their  place. 


96  Richard  Hooker 

Important  as  may  be  the  results  arrived  at  by 
Hooker's  argument,  his  method  and  his  temper  are 
more  important.  His  influence  is  at  once  to  liberalise 
and  to  sober  the  mind  of  one  who  has  submitted  to  his 
teaching.  Possessed  by  a  deep  enthusiasm  for  order, 
he  had  nothing  of  the  arbitrary  temper  of  Laud,  which 
without  adequate  regard  to  circumstances,  and  with  a 
pitiful  indifference  to  the  proportion  of  things,  would 
work  from  without  inwards,  and  skin  the  ulcer  of 
disunion  with  the  superficial  healing  of  an  enforced 
uniformity.  Yet  Laud,  who  was  far  from  intolerant  in 
matters  of  dogma,  however  harsh  he  was  in  discipline, 
probably  owed  to  Hooker  some  of  his  affinities  to  liberal 
thought.  Hooker's  vindication  of  the  claims  of  reason 
prepared  the  way  for  Chillingworth  and  Hales.  It  is  his 
hicrh  distinction  that  he  cannot  be  identified  with  anv 
party  within  the  English  Church ;  in  his  method  and 
in  his  temper  he  represents  nothing  less  than  the  better 
mind  of  England  ;  its  courage  and  its  prudence  ;  its 
audacity  and  its  spirit  of  reverence ;  its  regard  for 
principles  and  its  dislike  of  doctrinaire  abstractions ; 
its  capacity  for  speculation  controlled  by  its  considera- 
tion of  circumstances ;  its  respect  for  the  past  and 
its  readiness  for  new  developments  ;  its  practical  ten- 
dency ;   its  lofty  common  sense. 


ANGLO-CATHOLIC    POETS: 
HERBERT,  YAUGHAN 


The  poetry  of  the  ADglican  communion  is  most  happily  ' 
represented  by  two  books — George  Herbert's  "The 
Temple"  and  Keble's  ''The  Christian  Year."  Each  f 
was  the  fruit  or  the  foretaste  of  an  Anglican  revival. 
But  Keble's  collection  of  poems — designed  to  exhibit 
"  the  soothing  tendency  in  the  Prayer  Book " — had 
more  of  a  deliberate  purpose  and  plan  than  that  of 
Herbert,  Many  of  Keble's  pieces  are  poetical  studies 
of  themes,  delicately  touched  with  personal  feeling, 
but  rather  meditative  than  possessed  by  lyrical  j^assion. 
Herbert's  best  poems  are  lyrical  cries,  taken  up  by  the  / 
intelligence  and  daintily  arranged  as  if  for  the  viol  or  the 
lute.  The  vitality  of  what  he  wrote  is  attested  by  the 
witness  of  two  centuries,  the  seventeenth  and  the  nine- 
teenth. During  the  eighteenth  century — the  Sfjeculurti 
rationalisticum — his  light  shone  dimly  through  a  cloud. 
The  great  event  of  Herbert's  life  was  undoubtedly 
his  turning  from  a  mundane  career  to  the  humble 
duties  and  the  quiet  gladness  of  a  country  parson's 
lot.  As  a  child,  Walton  tells  us,  "  the  beauties  of 
his  pretty  behaviour  and  wit  shined  and  became  so 
eminent  and  lovely  .  .  .  that  he  seemed  to  be  marked 
out    for    piety,   and    to   become    the    care   of    Heaven, 

G  97 


gS    Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert^  Vaughan 

and  of  a  particular  good  angel  to  guide  and  guard 
him."  His  classical  scholarship  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five  justified  his  appointment  as  public  orator  at 
Cambridge ;  he  was  skilled  in  Italian,  Spanish,  French, 
and  hoped  at  one  time  that  he  might  attain  to  the 
position  of  a  Secretary  of  State.  He  kept  himself  at 
a  distance  from  his  inferiors,  valued  his  parts  and 
his  distinguished  parentage,  and  enjoyed  his  "  gentle 
humour  for  clothes  and  court-like  company."  We 
learn  with  some  satisfaction  from  his  brother,  Lord 
Herbert  of  Cherbury,  that  he  was  not  exempt  from 
passion  and  choler,  the  infirmities  of  his  race;  meek- 
ness •'•hat  is  grafted  on  ardour  of  temperament  is 
something   far   removed    from   tameness. 

A  time  came  when  Herbert  began  to  doubt  of  the 
world  and  its  coloured  gifts  : 

I  shake  my  head,  and  all  the  thoughts  and  ends, 
Which  my  fierce  youth  did  bandy,  fall  and  flow 
Like  leaves  about  me. 

In  the  poem  named  ''The  Pilgrim,"  he  appears 
as  a  traveller  whose  eyes  are  set  upon  a  distant  hill ; 
passing  the  dangers  of  the  way  and  its  meadows  of 
flowery  temptation,  he  comes  to  the  wild  of  passion, 
which   some  call  the  wold — 

A  wasted  place  but  sometimes  rich. 
At  length  the  hill  where  lie  his  heart  and  hope  is 
attained ;  alas  !  when  the  brow  has  been  reached, 
all  that  the  pilgrim  finds  is  a  brackish  pool  of  tears  ; 
his  true  goal  lies  yet  onward,  only  to  be  come  at  by 
the  way  of  death ;  yet  even  so,  weary  but  courageous, 
he  resolves  to  pursue  his  brave  adventure. 


Anglo-Catholic  Poets  :  Herbert,  Vaughan    99 

/  It  is  an  allegory  of  Herbert's  spiritual  life.  We 
may  rest  assured  that  the  worst  dangers  of  the  wild 
of  passion  were  unknown  to  his  experience  ;  his  heart 
was  never  concentrated  in  one  evil  desire,  but  it 
had  been  scattered  and  squandered  amid  mundane 
attractions  which  afterwards  seemed  to  him,  in  com- 
parison with  joys  that  he  had  found,  mere  dust  or 
dross.  He  needed  some  coherence,  some  controlling 
unity,  some  centre  of  activity,  some  central  rest  in 
his  spirit ;  and  he  found  there,  no  overmastering 
evil  perhaps,  but  a  crowd  of  pestering  idle  wishes 
and  shallow  cares  —  "  quarries  of  piled  vanities," 
*'  thousands  of  toys,"  "  bubbles  of  foam/'  "  balls  of 
wind,"   ''  balls  of  wild-fire  "  : 

Chases  in  arras,  gilded  emptiness, 
Shadows  well  mounted,  dreams  in  a  career. 

How  far  is  man,  he  exclaims,  from  power  and  from 
settled  peace  !  He  is  "  some  twenty  several  men  at 
least  each  several  hour."  Herbert  did  not  feel  like 
Bunyan's  Christian  that  he  was  crushed  by  a  burden, 
a  doomed  and  terrified  inhabitant  of  the  City  of 
Destruction ;  he  resembled  rather  Bunyan's  other 
pilgrim  who  quitted  Vanity  Fair  to  seek  abiding 
joys   in   the   Celestial   city. 

He  longed  for  constancy — a  confirmed  will — and  he 
longed  for  true  rest.  He,  the  friend  of  Bacon,  had 
known  the  ways   of  learning — 

what  the  stars  conspire, 
What  willing  nature  speaks,  what  forced  by  fire, 
Both  the  old  discoveries,  and  the  new  found  seas, 
The  stock  and  surplus,  cause  and  history. 


lOO  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan 

He,  a  courtier,  high  in  the  King's  favour  and  not 
meanly  valued  by  the  most  eminent  and  powerful 
of  the  great   lords,   had   known  the   ways   of  honour  : 

what  maintains 
The  quick  returns  of  courtesy  and  wit, 
In  vies  of  favours  whether  party  gains, 
When  glory  swells  the  heart. 

He  had  known  the  ways  of  pleasure : 

What  mirth  and  music  mean  ;  what  love  and  wit 
Have  done  these  twenty  hundred  years,  and  more. 

And  the  distractions  of  knowledge  and  honour  and 
pleasure  seemed  only  to  make  an  idle  noise  of  thoughts 
within  his  heart.  "■  Man,"  he  cries,  ''  is  out  of  order 
hurled. 

Parcelled  out  to  all  the  world." 

He  desired  to  escape  from  idle  anarchy  of  the  will,. 

and   to   enter    into    the    Divine    order,    which   gives   to 

all   things    their    set    forms,    making   sweet    walks    and 

bowers  where  the    wild    woods    had    been.  *  He   would 

fain  be  a  link    of  God's   great   chain  ;    a   piping  reed^ 

if  no  more,  in   God's  great  concert ;  a  flower,  however 

lowly,  in  God's   garden ;   a   tree   giving   either  fruit    or 

shade — 

at  least  some  bird  would  trust 
Her  household  to  me,  and  I  should  be  just. 

How  should  constancy  be  attained  amid  vicissitude  ? 
And  where  is  the  dwelling-place  of  Peace  ? 

He  felt  the  dignity  as  well  as  the  poverty  of  man, 
and  knew  that  such  dignity  is  wronged  by  entering 
as  an  atom  into  a  vain  whirl  of  dust.  Man  is  in 
truth  a  stately  palace  built  for  God ;  a'noble  piece  of 


Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Hci^^'crU   V'ariyhhn    ibi 

symmetry  ;  a  harmony  made  to  bear  a  part  with  the 

whole  of  the  Divine  creation — 

For  head  and  foot  hath  private  amity, 
And  both  with  moons  and  tides. 

Man  is    a   master   attended    by   the   winds   and   the 

fountains,  by   stars  and   sun,   by  night  and  day.      And 

yet   he    is   a   palace    in    decay ;    a   tree   that   bears   no 

fruit ;   a  dissonance    in   nature ;    a    master   who   wields 

no    true    authority,    but    squanders    his    wealth    as    a 

spendthrift.      Since  the  world  has  grown   old   it   seems 

as   if  life    had    become   more    difficult   and    the  Divine 

Presence    were    less   near.      In  the   former   days,   when 

God   lodged    with    Lot,   struggled    with    Jacob,   advised 

with     Abraham,    He    might    be    encountered     at    any 

moment,    suddenly   on   the   right   hand   or   the   left : 

One  might  have  sought  and  found  Thee  presently 
At  some  fair  oak,  or  bush,  or  cave,  or  well : 
Is  my  God  this  way  ?     No,  they  would  reply, 
He  is  to  Sinai  gone,  as  we  heard  tell  : 
List,  ye  may  hear  great  Aaron's  bell. 

Yet,  with   such  a  sigh  as  this  for  the  primitive  age  of 

wonder    and    direct   intercourse    with   heaven,    Herbert 

felt  or  came  to  feel  that  the  secluded  Deity  is  not  far 

from  every  one   of  us,  that   in  Him  we  live,  and  move, 

and  have  our  being  : 

Thou  art  in  small  things  great,  nor  small  in  any  : 

Thy  even  praise  can  neither  rise  nor  fall. 
Thou  art  in  all  things  one,  in  each  thing  many  : 

For  Thou  art  infinite  in  one  and  all. 

Tempests  are  calm  to  Thee  ;  they  know  Thy  hand. 
And  hold  it  fast,  as  children  do  their  father's, 

"WTiich  cry  and  follow.     Thou  hast  made  poor  sand 
Check  the  proud  sea,  ev'n  when  it  swells  and  gathers. 

And  thus  the  age  of  wonder  is  perpetually  present. 


i'62  i^nglO'-Catholi'c  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan 

In  the  City  of  Destruction  by  one  who  is  oppressed 
beneath  his  awful  burden  God  is  thought  of  at  first 
as  the  angry  judge.  Herbert  thinks  of  God  rather  as 
a  loving  strategist,  who  lures  His  children  to  Himself  by 
finer  bribes  than  Vanity  Fair  can  offer.  He  is  like  the 
mother  who  would  not  startle  her  infant  when  it  was 
crawling  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  but  silently  dis- 
played her  bosom  and  won  the  straggler  back.  We  are 
beset  by  temptations  to  piety  more  than  by  temptations 
to  sin.  Dawn  arises,  and  with  it  comes  a  sunbeam  by 
which  the  soul  may  climb  to  heaven  : 

I  cannot  ope  mine  eyes, 

But  thou  art  ready  there  to  catch 
My  morning  soul  and  sacrifice  ; 

Then  we  must  needs  for  that  day  make  a  match. 

Eveoing  descends,  and  night  shows  no  less  love  than 
the  day  ;  if  day  was  the  gale,  evening  is  the  harbour ; 
if  day  was  the  garden,  evening  is  the  grove.  Joy 
should  lead  us  Godwards,  and  if  joy  fail,  then  there  is 
grief;  even  weariness  should  toss  us  to  God's  breast. 
On  every  side  our  heart  is  enticed  to  its  true  happiness; 
millions  of  surprises  waylay  us  ;  and  the  sound  of  glory 
is  for  ever  ringing  in  our  ears.  The  springtide  of  glad- 
ness, when 

Our  days  were  strawed  with  flowers  and  happiness, 
There  was  no  month  but  May, 

is  followed  by  the  mercies  of  affliction — 

Thus  thin  and  lean  without  a  fence  or  friend 
I  was  blown  through  by  every  storm  and  wind. 

And  gladness  and  sorrow  are  alike  parts  of  the  Divine 
art  by  which  souls  are  captured  for  their  own  good. 


Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,   Vaiig/ian   103 

But  the  way  to  constancy  and  to  content  is  through 
humility  and  obedience.  Wits  may  enter  into  contest, 
and  inscribe  their  rival  posies  on  the  pane  :  let  our 
posy  be  the  words,  "  Less  than  the  least  of  all  thy 
mercies."  More  than  the  other  enthroned  Virtues, 
Humility,  who  sits  the  lowest,  is  \vise  ;  let  us  till  our 
own  ground  ;  let  us  roost  and  nestle  under  God's  tent, 
not  gadding  abroad  at  the  call  of  wandering  thoughts 
and  passions  : 

Who  cannot  on  his  own  bed  sweetly  sleep 
Can  on  another's  hardly  rest. 

Let  us  know  how  to  possess  our  secret,  and  harbour 
the  flame  within  us  as  safely  as  the  fire  is  hidden  in 
the  flint.  Whether  the  world  rides  by  him  or  lags 
behind,  the  honest  man  will  constantly  ride  his  sure 
and  even  trot ;  if  trials  come,  he  neither  seeks  nor 
shuns,  but  calmly  abides  them  ;  his  words  and  works 
are  all  of  a  piece,  and  all  are  clear  and  straight ;  if  he 
has  to  deal  with  those  who  are  governed  by  passion,  he 
allows  for  that  and  keeps  his  steadfast  course. 

Constancy  and  content  attained  through  humility  and 
obedience — these  substantial  gains  Herbert  must  needs 
choose  rather  than  the  various  toys  men  chaffer  for  in 
the  world's  fair  ;  and  so  the  courtier  of  King  James  was 
transformed  into  the  rector  of  Bemerton.  He  viewed 
deliberately  the  two  methods  of  life,  the  two  regiments, 
God's  and  the  world's — 

Thine  clad  with  simpleness  and  sad  events, 

The  other  fine, 
Full  of  glory  and  gay  weeds, 
Brave  language,  braver  deeds — 


I04  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  He7'bert^  Vaughan 

and  after  certain  scruples  of  conscience  had  been  over- 
come with  the  aid  of  counsel  from  Laud,  the  issue  was 
decided.  What  it  meant  for  Herbert  we  can  but  in- 
adequately conceive.  "  When  at  his  induction,"  writes 
Walton,  "  he  was  shut  into  Bemerton  church,  being 
left  there  alone  to  toll  the  bell,  as  the  law  requires 
him,  he  stayed  so  much  longer  than  an  ordinary  time 
before  he  returned  to  his  friends,  that  stayed  ex- 
pecting him  at  the  church  door,  that  his  friend  Mr 
Woodnot  looked  in  at  the  church  window,  and  saw 
him  lie  prostrate  on  the  ground  before  the  altar ;  at 
which  time  and  place,  as  he  after  told  Mr  Woodnot, 
he  set  some  rules  to  himself  for  the  future  manage 
of  his  life,  and  then  and  there  made  a  vow  to  labour 
to  keep  them." 

To  become  part  of  a  great  and  Divine  Order,  to 
regulate  his  life  by  rules,  to  perform  a  round  of  duties 
exactly,  reverently,  gracefully,  gladly,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  express  in  song  the  tides,  the  fluctuations,  the 
incursions,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  spirit,  made  up  the 
life  of  George  Herbert.  He  could  not  wholly  shape  his 
course  by  rule.  Still  the  passionate  temperament  of  his 
race  remained  with  him  ;  but  his  .ardour  was  in  great 
measure  regulated,  and  served  before  all  else  to  quicken 
his  fidelity  in  duty  and  to  prevent  his  observance  of 
forms  from  sinking  into  formalism.  Still  he  was  subject 
to  swift  alternations  of  mood  : 

How  should  I  praise  Thee,  Lord  !  how  should  my  rhymes 

Gladly  engrave  Thy  love  in  steel, 
If  what  my  soul  doth  feel  sometimes 

My  soul  might  ever  feel ! 


A7iglo- Cat  ho  lie  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan    105 

Although  there  were  some  forty  heavens,  or  more, 

Sometimes  I  peer  above  them  all ; 
Sometimes  I  hardly  reach  a  score, 

Sometimes  to  hell  I  fall. 
0  rack  me  not  to  such  a  vast  extent. 

In  the  poem  entitled  "  Misery,"  Herbert  reviews  the 
infirmities  and  follies  of  the  race  of  men  ;  at  the  close, 
b}''  a  sudden  return  upon  himself,  he  gives  the  whole  a 
personal  application.  What  is  man,  wavering  on  the 
billows  of  the  world  and  flung  upon  the  sands  or  rocky 
shelves?      What  is  he  but  ''a  sick  tossed  vessel" 

— dashing  on  each  thing  ; 
Nay,  his  own  shelf  : 
My  God,  I  mean  myself. 

Yet  beneath  all  fluctuations  of  mood  now  lay  steadfast- 
ness ;  beneath  all  restlessness  of  desire  lay  a  deep  content. 
He  knew  that  he  was  a  tiny  wheel  or  cog  in  the 
divine  machinery,  a  machinery  which  had  its  pulse  and 
movement  in  the  spirit.  A  lover  of  beauty,  he  carried 
his  sense  of  beauty  into  his  realisation  of  a  sacred  order. 
He  still  could  smell  the  dew  and  rain  and  relish  versinof. 
What  are  the  songs  that  celebrate  with  ingenious  praise 
a  girdle  or  a  glove  but  "  dust  blown  by  wit "  ?  All  his 
inventions  he  would  seriously  lay  upon  the  altar.  He 
had  nobler  beauties  to  sing  than  the  red  and  white  of  a 
woman's  cheek  or  the  trammels  of  golden  hair.  He  could 
wittily  play  with  fancies  and  twist  his  metaphors,  if  the 
mood  took  him  ;  for  God  does  not  disdain  the  pretty, 
pious  sports  of  His  children.  He  could  spread  his  Easter 
wings,  or  build  his  visible  altar  of  verse,  upon  the  page, 
or  labour  his  devout  anagram,  or  tangle  his  wreath  of 
rhymes ;  it  was  the  fashion  of  the  day,  and  why  should 


io6  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vattghan 

not  fashion  itself  be  sanctified?  But  he  could  also  be 
plain  and  bid  farewell  to  sweet  phrases,  curled  metaphors, 
trim  inventions,  honey  of  roses,  winding  stairs  of  subtle 
meaning: — 

Shepherds  are  honest  people  ;  let  them  sing  : 
Eiddle  who  list  for  me,  and  pull  for  prime  : 
I  envy  no  man's  nightingale  or  spring. 

And  in  truth  Herbert's  range  as  a  poet  was  considerable. 
He  could  wind  himself  into  the  daintiest  conceits.  He 
could  be  gravely  majestic: — 

This  heap  of  dust, 
To  which  the  blast  of  death's  incessant  motion, 
Fed  with  the  exhalation  of  our  crimes, 
Drives  all  at  last. 


He  could  write  in  a  strain  of  genuine  simplicity : — 

r 


Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, 
In  all  things  Thee  to  see, 

And  what  I  do  in  any  thing, 
To  do  it  as  for  Thee. 


And  whatever  was  within  him,  ornament  or  simplicity, 
seriousness  or  innocent  play,  belonged  to  God  and  to 
God's  Church. 

To  God's  Church,  for  that  was  part  of  the  Divine  order, 
through  which  he  had  been  delivered  from  the  anarchy 
of  the  world,  and  it  was  a  part  beautiful  to  his  heart's 
desire.  In  all  visible  things  he  was  pleased  by  comeli- 
ness. His  gentle  humour  for  clothes  did  not  disappear 
on  the  morning  when,  forsaking  his  sword  and  silk,  he 
summoned  a  tailor  to  come  speedily  from  Salisbury  to 
Wilton  to  take  measure  and  make  him  canonical  gar- 
ments against  next  day,  "  which,"  adds  Walton,  to  satisfy 
the  reader's  expectant  sympathy,  "the  tailor  did."     But 


A7iglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,   Vaughan   107 

Herbert,  we  know,  frail  and  graceful  as  he  was,  would 
not  scruple  to  put  off  his  canonical  coat  at  need  to  help 
a  poor  man  with  a  poorer  horse  that  was  fallen  under 
his  load,  and  never  did  the  country  parson,  "  which  used 
to  be  so  trim  and  clean,"  look  happier  than  when  he 
came  soiled  and  discomposed  into  the  company  of  his 
musical  friends  at  Salisbury.  He  had  now,  however,  a 
wider  field  than  his  own  person  on  which  to  expend  his 
decorative  skill.  He  was  already  the  re-edifier  of  the 
parish  church  at  Lay  ton  Ecclesia,  ''  being  for  the  work- 
manship a  costly  mosaic,  for  the  form  an  exact  cross,  and 
for  the  decency  and  beauty,"  his  biographer  assures  us, 
*'  the  most  remarkable  parish  church  that  this  nation 
affords."  He  proceeded  forthwith  to  repair  the  chancel 
at  Bemerton,  and  to  rebuild  in  great  part  the  parsonage, 
inscribinof  it  to  his  successor  in  words  which  exhorted 
him  to  be  good  to  the  poor,  that  so  the  builder's  labour 
should  not  be  lost. 

Herbert's  feeling  for  order  and  beauty  was  satisfied 
by  that  middle  way  between  splendour  and  plainness 
which  he  found  in  the  Anglican  Church  : — 

The  mean  thy  praise  and  glory  is, 
And  long  may  be. 

The  title  given  to  his  poems,  perhaps  by  his  friend 
Nicholas  Ferrar,  "The  Temple,"  sounds  somewhat  too 
stately  ;  as  far  as  they  are  concerned  with  the  public 
ordinances  of  religfion  "  The  Parish  Church  "  would  have 
been  sulBQcient.  Herbert's  imagination  was  not  spacious 
or  rich  enough  to  move  at  ease  amid  the  noble  pomps  of 
ritual ;  these  w^ould  have  oppressed  rather  than  borne 


io8  Anglo- Cat  ho  lie  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan 

upwards  his  spiritual  aspirations.  He  needed  grace  and 
refinement  as  incentives,  and  he  needed  for  repose  some 
chastened  order  made  sensible.  The  parish  music  of 
voices  accompanied  with  viol  and  flute  sufficed  to  lift 
him  above  all  temporal  cares  : — 

Now  I  in  you  without  a  body  move, 
Rising  and  falling  with  your  wings  : 

We  both  together  sweetly  live  and  love, 
Yet  say  sometimes  God,  help  poor  Kings. 

He  loved  to  moralise  the  simple  accessories  of  worship 
or  of  the  place  of  prayer  into  dainty  meanings — the 
checkered  stones  of  the  floor  signify  humility  and  patience, 
the  stains  of  the  marble  are  the  stains  of  sin,  the  storied 
windows,  in  which  colour  and  light  combine  to  show 
forth  sacred  things,  are  the  holy  preachers ;  even  the  lock 
and  key  must  yield  a  moral.  The  rites  of  the  Church 
have  for  their  character  a  spiritual  power  clothed  in  the 
beauty  of  simplicity.  Baptism  is  the  little  gate  and 
narrow  way  through  which  we  enter  into  the  realm  of 
divine  order;  it  reminds  us  that  the  childlike  spirit 
should  still  be  ours,  for  ''childhood  is  health."  In  the 
Holy  Communion  Christ  conveys  Himself  to  the  faithful 
''not  in  rich  furniture  or  fine  array"  but  by  the  way  of 
nourishment  and  strength.  The  habit  of  the  Christian 
priesthood  is  "  a  severe  attire  "  ;  God  makes  vessels  of 
lowly  matter  meet  for  high  uses.  The  splendour  of  the 
true  Aarons  is  now  only  for  the  inward  eye  : 

Holiness  on  the  head, 
Light  and  perfections  on  the  breast, 
Harmonious  bells  below  raising  the  dead, 
To  lead  them  unto  life  and  rest. 

Thus  are  true  Aarons  drest. 


Anglo-Cat holic  Poets :  Herbert,   Vattghan   109 

From  Walton's  detailed  account  of  the  instruction 
given  by  Herbert  to  his  parishioners  we  learn  that  the 
central  thought  of  the  teacher  with  respect  to  the  whole 
service  of  the  Church  was  that  it  is  a  reasonable 
service,  and  therefore  acceptable  to  God. 

A  certain  beautiful  method  and  order  is  imparted  to 
the  religious  emotions,  which  are  too  apt  to  run  wild,  by 
the  progress  of  the  Christian  year.  At  Christmas  the 
soul  of  the  singer  arrays  itself  in  the  garments  of  the 
shepherds,  and  leads  its  flock  of  thoughts  to  spiritual 
pastures.  Lent  is  a  ''dear  feast"  rather  than  a  season 
of  fasting;  if  Christ  fasted,  we  should  follow  and,  though 
far  behind  His  forty  days  of  entire  abstinence,  we  may 
meet  Him  in  His  own  way: 

Perhaps  my  God,  though  He  be  far  before 
May  turn,  and  take  me  by  the  hand. 

At  Easter  we  taste  the  joy  of  the  sun's  early  light 

and  perfume,  and  are  met  by  a  deeper  joy  : 

I  got  me  flowers  to  straw  thy  way  ; 

I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree  ;  i 

But  thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 

And  brought'st  thy  sweets  along  with  thee. 

On  Whitsunday  we  pray  that  the  Dove  may  spread 
his  golden  wings  above  our  hearts.  On  Trinity  Sunday 
we  translate  the  mystery  into  renewed  faith  and  hope 
and  charity.  There  is  no  Sunday  of  all  the  year  that 
does  not  pull  and  turn  us  round  from  worldly  cares,  to 
look  on  One  whom  if  we  were  not  very  dull  we  should 
look  on  constantly  : 

On  Sunday  heaven's  gate  stands  ope  ; 
Blessings  are  plentiful  and  rife. 
More  plentiful  than  hope. 


no  Anglo-Catholic  Poets  :  Herbert^  Vaughan 

To  the  Virgin  mother  Herbert  is  dutifully  reverent 
and  presents  her  with  the  toy  of  an  anagram  on  her 
name.  To  her  and  to  all  angels  and  saints  he  is  very 
courteous  ;  reluctantly  declining  the  dulia  and  hyper- 
dulia  because  these  are  not  bidden,  he  dares  not  go 
beyond  the  divine  command,  which  they  also  gladly 
observe — 

Where  His  pleasure  no  injunction  lays, 
('Tis  your  own  case)  ye  never  move  a  wing. 

Such  self-denying  apology  on  her  singer's  part  must 
surely  gratify  the  blessed  Maid  more  than  any  fervours 
of  misdirected  homage. 

Curious  questions,  which  create  divisions  in  religion, 
are  set  aside  by  Herbert's  piety.  "Love  God,  and  love 
your  neighbour.  Watch  and  pray.  Do  as  ye  would  be 
done  unto" — these  are  the  Gordian  knots  of  religion, 
and  they  need  no  severing  nor  untying.  Astronomers 
invent  their  epicycles  to  save  a  theory  of  the  spheres ;  in 
divinity  we  may  burn  the  ingenious  epicycles  of  the 
theologians.  The  Holy  Scriptures  are  a  book  of  stars 
that  lights  us  to  eternal  bliss.  After  entire  self- 
confession  to  God,  how  lucid  all  things  have  grown ! 
And  there  is  the  wisdom  of  prayer,  concerning  which 
Herbert  has  said  perhaps  his  deepest  word.  The  sonnet 
on  Prayer  is  one  of  piled-up  metaphors,  as  if  no  imagery 
were  sufficient  to  express  its  sweetness  and  its  strength  ; 
prayer  is  God's  breath  in  man,  a  plummet,  an  engine 
against  the  Almighty,  a  tower,  a  tune,  a  bird  of 
paradise ;  but  in  the  last  word  of  the  sonnet  all 
metaphor  is  dropped,  and  prayer  is  felt  like  the  deep 


Anglo-Catholic  Poets  :  He7'bert,  Vaughan   1 1 1 

and  satisfying  and  inexpressible  discovery  of  Saint  John    J   /, 
as  he  lay  on  the  divine  comrade's  breast;  prayer  is 

Church-bells  beyond  the  stars  heard,  the  soul's  blood, 
The  land  of  spices  ;  something  understood. 

"  Something  understood,"  which  it  is  impossible  to  utterj 
in  words,  and  to  which  no  imagery  corresponds. 

The  last  word  of  Herbert  is  neither  of  death  nor 
doomsday,  of  judgment  nor  heaven  ;  it  is  the  poem 
named  ''  Love."  By  Love  the  soul,  ''  guilty  of  dust  and 
sin,"  is  welcomed  to  the  feast  ;  but  the  poor  guest  is 
embarrassed  by  a  sense  of  unworthiness — 

I,  the  unkind,  ungrateful  ?     Ah,  my  dear, 

I  cannot  look  on  thee. 
Love  took  my  hand,  and  smiling  did  reply, 

"Who  made  the  eyes  but  I. 

Truth,  Lord,  but  I  have  marr'd  them  :  let  my  shame 

Go  where  it  doth  deserve. 
And  know  you  not,  says  Love,  who  bore  the  blame  % 

My  dear,  then  I  will  serve. 
You  must  sit  down,  says  Love,  and  taste  my  meat  : 

So  I  did  sit  and  eat. 

Exquisite  courtesy  to  the  close,  the  courtesy  of  heaven 
meeting  the  humble  fears  and  affectionate  desires  of 
earth.      The  last  delicacy  of  Love,  the  strategist. 


II 

Herbert's  "  A  Priest  to  the  Temple,  or  the  Country 
Parson,"  is  at  once  an  expression  of  his  own  character 
and  a  document  which  presents  one  aspect  of  the 
religious  life  of  the  time.  It  exhibits,  in  a  gracious 
ideal,  the  life  and  practice  of  the  rural  priest  of  the 
Anglican   Church,    who   belonged   rather  to  the  school 


112  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan 

of  Andrewes  and  of  Laud  than  to  that  of  the  doctrinal 
Puritans.  The  ideal  is  one  of  piety,  pure,  peaceable, 
balanced,  amiable,  which  avoids  the  madness  of  extremes, 
which  has  no  vast  ambitions,  which  has  no  passion  for 
reforming  the  Reformation  by  revolutionary  methods, 
which  rather  seeks  constantly  to  irrigate  the  garden 
by  the  appointed  channels,  and  yet  attains  originality 
through  the  degree  in  which  the  beauty  of  holiness  is 
shown  to  be  consistent  with  a  reverent  order. 

The  pastor  is  the  deputy  of  Christ ;  even  if  he  is 
chaplain  in  a  nobleman's  house,  it  is  right  that  he  should 
remember  the  dignity  of  his  office,  and  be  neither  over- 
submissive  nor  base  towards  his  lord  and  lady.  The 
country  parson  is  "  holy,  just,  prudent,  temperate,  bold, 
grave,  in  all  his  ways  "  ;  not  greedy  of  worldly  gain  (for 
country  folk  feel  their  own  sweat,  and  know  the  price 
of  money)  ;  not  luxurious  in  meats  and  drink  ;  a  strict 
keeper  of  his  word,  one  whose  yea  is  yea,  and  nay  nay  ; 
plain  in  his  apparel,  but  reverend  and  clean,  "  without 
spots  or  dust  or  smell,"  the  purity  of  his  mind  ''break- 
ing out  and  dilating  itself  even  to  his  body,  clothes,  and 
habitation."  His  knowledge  may  be  of  many  things, 
for  all  will  serve  his  uses  ;  but  especially  he  studies  in 
the  Book  of  Books,  interpreting  the  Holy  Scriptures  with 
the  aids  of  a  holy  life,  constant  prayer,  the  diligent  col- 
lation of  text  with  text,  and  the  guidance  of  the  Com- 
menters  and  Fathers.  For  the  Fathers,  the  Schoolmen, 
and  later  writers  are  familiar  to  him,  and  have  been 
digested  into  a  body  of  divinity,  made  by  way  of  ex- 
pounding the  Church  catechism.  With  simpler  learners 
he  chooses  a  simpler  manner  of  catechising ;  for  all  his 


Ano'lo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,   Vauo-kan   113 


people  he  is  skilled  in  resolving  cases  of  conscience,  since 
this  is  far  from  being  the  least  important  of  the  duties 
of  Christ's  deputy. 

In  public  prayer  the  priest  expresses  his  devotion 
by  a  serious  and  becoming  aspect,  by  reverent  gestures, 
by  a  "  grave  liveliness"  of  utterance,  "  pausing  yet  press- 
ing." He  exacts  from  his  people  the  most  dutiful  be- 
haviour ;  when  they  stand  up  they  must  hold  themselves 
erect ;  when  they  kneel  it  must  be  no  half-kneeling  ; 
when  they  make  their  responses  it  must  be  with  dis- 
tinctness, not  in  a  ''  huddling  or  slubbering "  fashion, 
but  ''gently  and  pausably"  ;  the  magnates  of  the  parish 
must  not  be  permitted  to  make  a  kind  of  state-entry 
when  half  the  prayers  are  over ;  should  they  persist  in 
such  unseemly  conduct,  it  must  be  made  the  subject  of 
an  official  inquiry.  As  for  the  pulpit,  it  is  the  parson's 
''joy  and  throne"  ;  he  procures  attention  for  the  sermon 
by  all  possible  art ;  he  enlivens  his  discourse  by  anecdote 
and  pithy  saying  ;  but  its  essential  character  is  holiness. 
He  chooses  some  ravishing  text,  rather  of  devotion  than 
of  controversy  ;  he  steeps  his  words  in  his  own  heart ; 
he  breaks  forth  at  times  in  apostrophes  to  God,  as  if 
he  were  alone  in  his  Maker's  presence — "  such  irradia- 
tions scatteringly  in  the  sermon  carry  great  holiness  in 
them ;  "  he  deals  with  his  text  as  a  whole,  developing 
its  meaning  with  natural  expansions,  not  crumbling  it 
into  small  fragments  ;  he  is  content  with  one  hour  of 
such  edifying  interpretation  and  appeal,  and  does  not 
turn  the  glass.  In  the  afternoon  he  chooses  rather  to 
catechise  than  to  preach,  requiring  all,  young  and  old, 
poor  and  rich,  to  be  present,  that  they  may  either  answer 

H 


114  Aiiglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan 

or  attend  to  the  Catholic  answers  of  those  whom  he 
questions  with  a  Socratic  skill,  learnt  in  part  from  the 
examples  in  Plato's  dialogues.  Sermons  may  "  inflame  " ; 
it  is  catechising  that  "informs."  The  rest  of  his  Sun- 
day is  spent  in  goodly  offices  to  those  who  are  at  vari- 
ance with  one  another,  to  the  sick,  and  to  such  as  have 
been  unavoidably  hindered  from  church-going. 

Virginity  is  held  by  the  parson  to  be  a  higher  state 
than  matrimony  ;  yet  if  his  parish  duties  require  him 
to  converse  with  women,  he  must  needs  marry.  If  un- 
married he  keeps  only  men-servants,  and  sees  that  his 
linen  is  washed  abroad.  Never  has  he  speech  with  any 
woman  alone,  and  even  in  the  presence  of  others  he 
speaks  seldom  and  seriously.  A  true  virgin,  he  spends 
his  days  in  fasting  and  prayer,  and  in  frequent  reading 
of  the  lives  of  the  primitive  monks,  hermits,  and  virgins. 
Should  he  take  to  himself  a  wife,  he  chooses  her  rather 
by  the  ear  than  by  the  eye,  with  judgment  rather  than 
through  the  impulse  of  passion.  To  her  he  yields  half 
the  government  of  the  house,  while  holding  the  reins  in 
his  own  hand.  It  is  her  part  to  train  up  her  children 
and  maids  in  the  fear  of  God,  to  be  skilled  in  the  lore 
of  simple  and  petty  surgery,  and  to  see  that  provision  be 
made  for  her  household  without  contracting  debts.  His 
sons  he  *'  first  makes  Christians  and  then  Common- 
wealth's men";  they  are  trained  in  little  charities  to 
other  children,  and  in  due  time  may  be  bound  appren- 
tices to  respectable  trades  ;  but  to  serve  in  taverns  is  as 
unbecoming  for  a  clergyman's  son  as  the  vain  trade  of 
lace-raaking  is  for  his  daughters.  The  parson's  house  is 
a  school  of  religion ;  on  the  walls  pious  texts  are  seen ; 


Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan   115 

his  servants  are  given  time  for  devout  reading ;  every- 
one is  in  his  own  way  a  preacher  ;  every  fault  is  con- 
fessed, every  sin  is  rebuked  ;  maids  and  men  kneel  by 
his  side  and  are  taught  to  pray ;  yet  he  governs  his 
servants  more  by  fear  than  by  love.  The  furniture  of 
the  house  is  very  plain,  ''  but  clean,  whole,  and  sweet, 
as  sweet  as  his  garden  can  make  "  ;  the  fare  is  plain — 
beef,  mutton,  veal — but  all  is  very  good  ;  swine  and 
poultry  consume  the  refuse.  When  he  fasts  it  is 
genuine  fasting,  with  food  not  only  small  in  quantity 
but  unpleasant.  If  fish  gratifies  his  palate,  then  let 
him  fast  on  flesh. 

Hospitality  and  charity  are  among  the  parson's  duties. 
Those  who  conduct  themselves  well  he  distingcuishes  and 
rewards  by  an  invitation  to  his  table  ;  he  makes  his  alms 
a  hook  by  which  to  capture  those  who  require  such  a 
reward  for  dutiful  observances ;  on  occasions,  indeed,  he 
will  run  the  risk  of  rash  almsgiving,  "  since,  of  the  two 
commands,  we  are  more  enjoined  to  be  charitable  than 
wise  "  ;  yet,  before  giving,  he  will  require  his  supplicants 
to  say  their  prayers,  or  the  creed,  or  the  ten  command- 
ments. When  he  is  wronged  in  his  tithes,  he  forgives 
the  offender  as  a  child,  if  there  be  hope  of  amendment. 
In  visiting  his  parishioners,  he  enters  the  house  with  a 
blessing,  he  lends  good  books,  he  furnishes  recipes  for 
the  cure  of  minor  ailments,  he  reproves  the  idle  and 
exhorts  the  industrious  not  to  make  riches  the  end  of 
their  labour ;  he  comforts  the  sick,  persuades  them  to 
private  confession,  and  urges  them  to  charitable  works ; 
he  is  particular  in  inquiring  as  to  the  regular  religious 
observances  of  every  household  ;  while,  to  temper  his 


ii6  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,   Vaughan 

inquisitorial  duty,  he  indulges  in  innocent  mundane 
discourse  for  conversation's  sake.  In  everything  he  is 
the  sentinel  of  God,  or,  rather,  he  is  ''  in  God's  stead  to- 
his  parish,"  the  re  warder  and  the  punisher  of  good  and 
evil  doers ;  the  lawyer,  the  physician,  the  priest  to  his 
people. 

In  his  church  all  things  are  decent,  whole  and  clean  ; 
at  great  festivals  strawed  and  stuck  with  boughs  and 
perfumed  with  incense  ;  he  aims  at  keeping  the  middle 
way  between  superstition  and  slovenliness.  At  com- 
munion times,  having  "  to  break  and  administer  God," 
he  is  in  great  awe  of  mind.  At  baptism  he  admits  no 
vain  or  idle  names  (such,  we  may  suppose,  as  a  Puritan 
mio-ht  choose),  but  those  that  are  usual  and  accustomed  \ 
he  cheerfully  crosses  the  child.  Should  any  in  his 
parish  hold  strange  doctrines,  he  bears  himself  towards 
them  lovingly  and  sweetly,  places  special  courtesies  on 
them  and  studies  the  particular  grounds  of  their  error^ 
whether  they  be  Papists  or  schismatics  ;  then,  having 
prayed  for  them  and  for  his  own  guidance,  is  the  time 
to  argue  with  them,  avoiding  all  heat  and  needless 
contention.  Serious  as  the  parson  habitually  is,  he 
sometimes  condescends  to  human  frailties  by  inter- 
minding  some  mirth  in  his  discourses.  Yet,  knowing 
the  general  ignominy  cast  on  his  profession,  he  is 
careful  to  maintain  its  dignity  and  authority.  He 
himself  honours  the  powers  that  be  ;  encourages  every 
one  to  public  spirit  and  usefulness ;  recognises  how 
brave  an  institution  is  that  of  justices  of  the  peace  ; 
commends  the  study  of  the  civil  laws  ;  esteems  it  wise 
that  worthy  men  should   aspire  to  a  seat  in  the  great 


Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vatighan   117 

council  of  the  kingdom ;  exhorts  young  gallants  to 
become  skilled  in  military  and  naval  affairs,  to  serve 
their  mother  country  in  the  plantations,  or  if  they 
travel  into  Germany  and  France,  to  endeavour  to  bring 
home  profitable  learning  and  not  foreign  vices.  He 
loves  the  old  customs  of  England,  and  helps  to  main- 
tain them.  When  he  blesses  his  people  it  is  but  a 
brief  summary  in  words  of  that  to  which  his  whole  life 
tends. 

George  Herbert's  ideal  of  the  country  parson's  life 
has  the  beauty  which  belongs  to  method  and  habit 
rendered  quick  and  energetic  by  the  presence  of  an 
animating  spirit.  Such  an  ideal  w^as  not  without  its 
uses  for  the  Church  of  England  at  the  time  when  f 
Herbert  himself  became  incumbent  of  Bemerton.  At 
that  date  Richard  Baxter  was  a  boy  of  about  fourteen 
or  fifteen.  The  old  incumbent  of  the  Shropshire  parish 
in  which  he  was  born  never  preached  ;  the  services  of 
a  thresher  and  of  a  tailor  in  reading  the  lessons  on  his 
behalf  were  replaced  by  those  of  the  incumbent's  kins- 
man, a  stage-player  turned  parson.  His  skill  on  the 
stage  and  in  the  reading-desk  was  supplemented  by 
skill  in  forging  holy  orders  for  the  benefit  of  the  pastor 
who  guided  the  flock  at  High  Ercall.  ''After  him,"  ^ 
writes  Baxter,  "  another  neighbour's  son  took  orders 
who  had  been  a  while  an  attorney's  clerk  and  a  common 
drunkard,  and  tippled  himself  into  so  great  poverty  that 
he  had  no  other  way  to  live."  The  people  in  general 
were  sunk  in  ignorance  and  irreligion.  Only  some  two 
or  three  families  in  twenty  spoke  and  lived  as  serious 
in  the  Christian  faith  ;   these   were  no   schismatics,  but 


ii8  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaugkan 

neither  were  they  of  the  revived  Anglo-Catholic  way  of 
thinking ;  ''  by  the  rest  they  were  called  Puritans,  and 
derided  as  hypocrites  and  precisians,"  to  merit  which 
reproach  it  was  enough  that  they  read  the  Scriptures^ 
prayed,  and  talked  a  few  words  of  the  life  to  come. 

It  must  be  said  also  that  the  leaders  of  that  move- 
ment with  which  Herbert  was  in  sympathy  did  not 
always  present  religion  in  the  amiable  aspect  set  forth 
in  "The  Country  Parson."  Laud,  who  sincerely  desired 
a  doctrinal  comprehension  within  the  Church,  who  was 
at  once  the  patron  of  Chillingworth  and  Herbert,  who 
regarded  (or  professed  to  regard)  outward  ceremonies  as 
of  less  importance  than  the  inward  worshijD  of  the  heart, 
yet  by  his  action  made  those  outward  ceremonies  the 
seeming  essentials  of  the  religion  of  England.  A  harsh 
Anglican  intolerance  was  set  over  against  a  harsh  Puritan 
intolerance.  The  words  of  a  writer  so  temperate  and 
so  well-informed  as  Professor  Gardiner  are  of  more 
weight  than  any  words  of  any  partisan  on  either  side  of 
the  great  controversy  :  "  Under  Charles  especially,"  he 
writes,  "  all  the  forces  of  the  Crown  were  placed  at 
Laud's  service,  and  it  was  not  merely  the  stricter 
Puritans,  but  all  who  cherished  the  Protestant  spirit, 
who  were  revolted  by  the  effort  made,  with  the  full 
support  of  the  King,  to  enforce  certain  ecclesiastical 
forms  upon  the  whole  people  of  England.  They 
naturally  forgot  that,  in  1629,  their  champions  in  the 
House  of  Commons  had  attempted  to  silence  every 
preacher  who  did  not  chime  in  with  their  own  doctrinal 
scheme.  The  full  tide  of  Puritanism  dashed  itself 
against  Charles,  strengthened  and  rendered   more  stub- 


Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan   119 

born  by  tbe  obstacles  which  he  had  raised  to  check  its 
course.  If  those  obstacles  had  not  been  there,  we 
should  have  had  no  revolutionary  fervour,  no  revival 
of  thoughts  and  beliefs  which  had  originally  come  into 
existence  in  the  struggle  of  the  sixteenth  century." 
The  measures  taken  against  the  Puritan  party  were 
strong  enough  and  weak  enough  to  produce  the 
maximum  of  evil  which  unwisdom  can  attain ;  they 
were  strong  enough  to  cause  deep  and  just  indignation  ; 
weak  enough  to  fail  of  genuine  success. 

The  country  parson  of  Herbert,  devoted  to  the 
spiritual  good  of  his  people,  mildly  ascetic,  amiably 
inquisitorial,  benevolently  despotic,  the  saintly  "  Deputy 
of  God,"  might  train  a  school  of  docile  children  in  the 
ways  of  pious  order ;  he  could  hardly  lead  them  to 
attain  the  fulness  of  the  stature  of  men.  He  is  the 
governor,  gentle  yet  severe,  of  a  people  in  tutelage. 
The  years  that  were  coming  tested  the  virility  of 
Englishmen.  From  the  city  and  from  the  fields  came 
forth  a  bold  and  resolute  race  of  thinkers  and  of  actors, 
who,  whatever  may  have  been  their  errors,  proved  that 
they  were  adult,  men  whose  virtues  and  whose  crimes 
had  alike  the  quality  of  masculine  force  and  inde- 
pendence. In  the  same  year  in  which  Herbert's 
volume  of  poems  was  published  the  Star-chamber  took 
measures  to  suppress  the  ''  faithful  preaching  ministry  " 
of  Puritan  lecturers.  William  Prynne,  for  his  censure 
of  plays,  which  was  regarded  as  reflecting  on  the  Queen, 
was  imprisoned,  and  by  and  by  was  pilloried,  with  the 
loss  of  his  ears,  which  were  sewed  on,  only  to  be 
effectually  eradicated  in   1637,  in  presence  of  a  great 


120  Anglo-Cat holic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan 

crowd,  ''  silent  mainly  and  looking  pale."  "  Sundays," 
sang  Herbert — 

"the  pillars  are 
On  wliich  heaven's  palace  arched  lies  ; 
The  other  days  fill  up  the  spare 
And  hollow  room  with  vanities." 

And  while  his  words  were  in  the  air,  the  grave  Puritan 
temper  of  England  was  outraged,  for  good  or  for  ill,  by 
the  republication  with  royal  authority  of  King  James's 
''  Book  of  Sports." 

Ill 

George  Herbert  was  not  only  a  poet  himself,  he  was 
the  father  of  poets.  Henry  Vaughan,  a  convert  from 
earthly  to  divine  love,  was  Herbert's  spiritual  son. 
The  thoughts  and  phrases  of  Herbert  which  he  transfers 
to  his  own  verse  seem  less  an  appropriation  than  an 
inheritance.  Yet  the  two  poets  not  only  differed  in  the 
character  of  their  gifts,  but  may  be  said  to  have  moved 
on  different  poetical  planes.  "■  The  unthrift  sun," 
wrote  Vaughan,  "shot  vital  gold";  of  such  vital  gold 
there  is  far  more  in  his  poetry  than  can  be  found  in 
that  of  his  master  and  model.  But  Herbert  was  better 
skilled  in  coining  his  metal  in  the  mint,  and  so  he  gave 
it  a  more  extended  currency. 

The  essential  difference,  however,  between  the  poet 
of  "  The  Temple  "  and  the  poet  of  "  Silex  Scintillans  " 
lies  deeper.  The  one  is  the  interpreter  of  an  ideal  of 
beauty  in  order,  an  ideal  of  the  spiritual  life  which 
accepts  and  is  assisted  by  rule  and  habit ;  the  regularity, 
indeed,  is  far  from  being  merely  formal  or  mechanical  ; 


Anglo-CatJiolic  Poets :  Hei'bert^  Vaughan   121 

the  flowers  which  grow  in  the  garden  are  living  flowers ; 
but  Herbert  thinks  that  they  flourish  best  and  show 
most  comely  when  they  are  bedded  in  definite  patterns 
and  are  watered  through  nicely  directed  channels.  He 
is  the  poet  of  the  Anglican  communion,  and  has  benefited 
by  all  the  advantage  of  harmony  with  an  established 
sj^stem.  Vaughan  was  an  excellent  churchman ;  he 
sincerely  deplored  the  religious  dissonance  of  his  time ; 
he  could  join  Herbert  in  a  reverent  delight  in  ''  the 
British  Church  "  :  "0  rosa  campi  !  0  lilium  convallium  ! 
quomodo  nunc  facta  es  jDabulum  aprorum  !  "  If  ques- 
tioned, he  would  doubtless  have  declared  that  his 
position  was  identical  with  that  of  the  teacher  to  whose 
words  and  example  he  owed  the  awakening  of  his 
spiritual  life.  But  Yaughan's  best  and  most  charac- 
teristic work  came  from  a  region  below  his  conscious 
intelligence.  When  he  set  himself  a  theme  and  wrote 
deliberately,  his  inspiration  too  often  deserted  him. 
On  Church  festivals  and  incidents  of  Scripture  history 
he  could  compose  verses,  in  which,  as  Mr  Beeching 
observes,  commonplaces  are  strung  together  without  the 
advantage  of  such  delicate  rhetoric  as  Herbert  practised. 
He  is  the  poet  of  what  cannot  be  methodised — the 
incalculable  beams  and  irradiation  of  the  soul,  the  in- 
calculable wind  that  blows  where  it  listeth  ;  his  garden 
is  watered  by  the  sudden  shower  and  the  invisible  dew. 
The  word  "  mystic "  suggests  some  initiation  into  a 
secret  tradition  of  wisdom.  Vaughan  is  rather  one  of 
the  illumines  whose  eyes  are  opened  to  a  light  which 
shines,  if  they  will  but  accept  it,  for  all  men.  His 
desire  is  not  so  much  for  order  in  conduct  as  for  unity 


122  Afiglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan 

in  the  soul.  The  spirit  of  man,  as  he  conceives  it,  is 
a  beam  emanating  from  the  original  source  of  light,  and 
holding  commerce  with  that  radiant  fountain  of  things. 
Nature  itself  is  permeated,  as  a  cloud  might  be,  by  the 
divine  streams  of  luminosity,  or  is  shot  through  by 
sudden  pencils  or  single  rays.  The  senses,  though  they 
may  be  abused,  are  properly  inlets  for  the  sacred 
actinism.  The  ascetic  temper  of  Herbert  is  therefore 
absent  from  the  best  poems  of  Vaughan.  The  colour, 
the  flush,  the  glow  of  life,  indeed,  do  not  speak  to  his 
soul ;  he  rather  fears  their  distracting  influence.  It  is 
light  in  its  unity — whiteness  of  illumination — towards 
which  he  aspires,  and  with  which  he  would  unite  him- 
self; a  light  having  no  intemperate  heat,  coming  not  in 
torrid  waves,  but  abiding  clear  and  serene. 

But  here,  in  our  mortal  life,  the  apparition  of  such 
light  is  intermittent ;  it  comes  and  suddenly  dis- 
appears ;  it  is  here  this  moment,  and  the  next  it  is 
gone  ;  we  cannot  capture  and  hold  it  in  a  noose  ;  we 
cannot  fix  it  in  forms  ;  the  door  opens  and  shuts ;  the 
brightness  flashes  and  fades.  We  may  prepare  for  its 
arrival  by  inward  clearness  and  quietness  ;  we  cannot 
in  our  present  state  possess  it  in  equal  measure  from 
day  to  day.  Such  is  the  prerogative  of  light ;  such 
is  our  infirmity,  but  such  also  is  our  blessedness.  What 
is  most  precious  in  life  is  not  subject  to  our  wills  ;  it 
cannot  be  reduced  to  a  method  of  piety ;  it  flows 
from  a  well-head  in  the  far-oflf  hills. 

We  are  exiles,  but  exiles  who  receive  messages  from 
our  native  land.  Hence  we  suffer,  and  may  rejoice 
because    we    suffer,   an    incurable    nostalgia.      We    are 


Anglo-Cat holic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan   123 

islanded  between  two  seas  of  light — the  bright  eternity 
from  which  we  came,  the  bright  eternity  of  the  future 
towards  which  we  progress.  Each  new-born  infant  is 
like  the  mysterious  child  of  old  romance,  who  is  borne 
to  shore  in  a  little  ark,  and  brings  with  him  tokens  of 
his  royal  origin,  tokens  of  that  palace  whence  he  came. 
Hence  the  radiance  of  our  early  years.  "  My  striving 
eye,"  Vaughan  writes  of  childhood,  "  dazzles  at  it,  as  at 
eternity." 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train  ; 
From  whence  the  enlighten'd  spirit  sees 
That  shady  city  of  palm  trees. 

And  beyond  the  other  term  of  earthly  life  there  are 

the  happy  dead  who, 

wing'd  and  free, 
Rove  in  that  mighty  and  eternal  light. 

The  triumph  of  their  brightness  makes  this  life  of  ours 
seem  a  mere  glimmering: 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 
Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days. 

Yet  they  are  themselves  our  pillar-fires — the  white 
dead  ;  and  such  guides  are  needful,  for  he  who  stays 
long  on  earth  must  pursue  his  course 

O'er  dark  hills,  swift  streams,  and  steep  ways 
As  smooth  as  glass. 

Little   wonder  is  it   that  such   a  traveller  should  pine 

for   his  relinquished    home  and   his  home  that  is   still 

unreached. 

But  unless  we  clothe  ourselves  in  cloud  and  mist,  we 


124  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan 

are  not  left  in  the  power  of  darkness.  Heaven  and 
''  close  eternity"  abide  within  us  : 

Should  poor  souls  fear  a  shade  or  night 
Who  came — sure — from  a  sea  of  light  ? 

We  can  "  think  on  our  dream  "  ;  we  can  fill  our  breast 
with  home  ;  through  thick  pangs  and  high  agonies  faith 
can  break  into  life.  Or  if  we  should  but  be  silent  and 
attend,  inward  voices  and  mysterious  reverberations  grow 

audible : 

I  came  at  last 
To  search  myself,  where  I  did  find 
Traces  and  sounds  of  a  strange  kind  ; 
Here  of  this  mighty  spring  I  found  some  drills,^ 
With  echoes  beaten  from  th'  eternal  hills. 

Scattered  fragments  inscribed  with  ancient  hieroglyphics 
lie  about  our  feet  ;  if  only  we  could  bring  them  together 
aright,  many  things  would  grow  intelligible.  Even  in 
the  masques  and  shadows  of  life  the  discerning  soul 
may  see  God's  sacred  way — 

And  by  those  hid  ascents  climb  to  that  day 

Which  breaks  from  Thee 
Who  art  in  all  things  though  invisibly. 

The  world,  with  all  that  it  possesses,  is  circled  by  the 
great  sphere  of  everlasting  light : 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  sphere  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright  ; 
And  round  beneath  it.  Time  in  hours,  days,  years, 

Driven  by  the  spheres. 
Like  a  great  shadow  moved  ;  in  which  the  world 

And  all  her  train  was  hurl'd. 

^  Drill,  a  small  trickling  stream. 


A^iglo-Catholic  Poets :  He7'bert,  Vatigkan   125 

Universal  nature  acknowledges  its  commerce  with  the 
heavens ;  its  forms  are  "  shadows  of  eternity."  The 
bird,  through  whose  lodging  the  busy  wind  blew  all 
night,  rejoices   in   the   dawn  : 

And  now  as  fresh  and  cheerful  as  the  light 
Thy  little  heart  in  early  hvmns  doth  sing. 

Even  the  speechless  rocks  and  stones,  struck  by  the 
morning  gleam,  are  "deep  in  admiration."  Much  more 
may  the  heart  of  man  possess  and  enjoy  the  divine 
brightness  : 

For  each  enclosed  spirit  is  a  star 

Enlight'ning  his  own  little  sphere  ; 
Whose  light,  though  fetch'd  and  borrowed  from  far. 

Both  mornings  makes  and  evenings  there. 

However  long  the  night,  however  dim  the  way,  an  hour 
will  arrive  when  the  cry,  "  The  Bridegroom  cometh," 
will  fill  the  heavens,  and  what  hour  should  that  be  but 
the  dawn  ?  The  seed  grows  secretly ;  the  dew  silently 
descends  ;  let  us  cherish  the  green  and  growing  blade  ; 
the  rule  of  life  is  a  plain  and  simple  one  : 

Then  bless  thy  secret  gro-vrth,  nor  catch 
At  noise,  but  tlirive  unseen  and  dumb, 

Keep  clean,  bear  fruit,  earn  life,  and  watch 
Till  the  white-^vinged  reapers  come  I 

And  even  if  at  the  last  there  is  in  God,  as  some  say,  "  a 
deep  but  dazzling  darkness,"  in  that  darkness,  which 
means  excess  of  light,  we  may  rejoice  to  live  invisible. 

Such  is  the  vision  which  came  to  the  seventeenth- 
century  illumine.  It  is  set  forth,  when  Vaughan  writes 
at  his  best,  with  a  large  utterance  and  a  recognition  of 
the  spiritual  presences  in   external  nature,  which  have 


126  Anglo- Cat  ho  lie  Poets :  Herbert^  Vaughan 

more  kinship  with  the  earlier  poetry  of  the  nineteenth 
century  than  with  that  of  his  own  day.  It  anticipates 
something  of  the  visionary  power  of  Wordsworth's  art ; 
but  in  Wordsworth  the  idealist  was  supported  by  the 
strong  north-country  dalesman ;  his  wandering  lights 
and  shadows  played  over  granite  cliff  and  scaur. 
Vaughan  lacked  such  support  ;  the  framework  of  rites 
and  ordinances,  which  served  the  genius  of  Herbert, 
may  have  given  strength  to  Vaughan's  life  as  a  man ; 
it  aided  him  little  or  not  at  all  as  a  poet ;  the  light 
within  him  would  not  submit  to  a  rule  or  measure  ;  the 
breeze  of  the  spirit  would  not  be  taken  in  the  meshes 
of  a  net.  His  "  Eastern  traffic  "  dealt  in  "  bright  and 
boundless  empyrean  themes  "  ;  Herbert's  themes  recog- 
nised willingly  and  to  their  own  advantage  a  bounding 
line. 

Each  of  the  two  poets  has  compiled  a  poem  of  pre- 
cepts. Herbert's  "  The  Church-porch "  is  designed  as 
a  kind  of  sprinkling  with  holy  water  before  the  entrant 
of  the  Temple  bows  his  head  in  presence  of  the  altar. 
Its  tone  is  therefore  designedly  subdued — no  exaltations 
of  piety  are  as  yet  becoming.  Keep  clean  in  conduct,  do 
not  get  drunk,  avoid  profane  swearing,  do  not  tell  lies, 
be  active,  steadfast,  manly,  live  by  rule,  be  thrifty,  be 
charitable,  do  not  run  into  debt,  do  not  gamble,  dress 
well  but  inexpensively,  be  pleasant  in  company,  seek  no 
quarrels,  laugh  moderately,  argue  temperately,  be  decent 
in  speech,  be  neither  over-bold  nor  servile,  envy  no  man, 
go  regularly  to  church,  but  do  not,  like  the  Puritans, 
set  preaching  above  prayers,  each  night  cast  up  the 
account  of  the  day's  spiritual  gains  and  losses  — all  this  is 


Anglo-Cathohc  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughan   127 

a  wholesome  sprinkling,  and  the  priest  manipulates  his 

aspergilliim  with  a  neat  hand.      Vaughan's  "  Rules  and 

Lessons,"  written  in   discipleship  rather  than  in  rivalry 

to  the  "  Church-porch,"  and,  identical  in  the  form  of  its 

stanza,  gives  counsel  for  the  conduct    of  a    single  day 

from  dawn  to  nightfall.      With  the  best  intentions  to 

be  didactic,  Vaughan  is  unable  to  constrain  his  pen  to 

the  task  of  mere  edification,  and   he  loses  himself  ever 

and  anon  in  pure  delight  and  wonder.      On  waking,  it 

is  right  that  the  soul  as  well  as  the  body  should   open 

its  eyes  : 

True  hearts  spread  and  heave 
Unto  their  God  as  flowers  do  to  the  sun. 

Prayer  should  dawn  with  the  day  ;  "  they  are  set,  awful 
hours  'twixt  heaven  and  us."  Then,  for  mornino-s  are 
mysteries,  the  purged  spirit  ma}^  taste  the  pureness  of 
the  air  and  observe  the  goings-on  of  the  fields  and 
woods  : 

Walk  with  thy  fellow-creatures  :  note  the  hush 
And  whispers  amongst  them.     There's  not  a  spring 

Or  leaf  but  hath  his  morning-hymn.     Each  bush 
And  oak  doth  know  /  am. 

And  not  only  in  the  prime  but  at  all  hours  the  in- 
fluences of  the  visible  world  may  serve  to  heighten 
devotion  or  to  cool  the  fever  of  the  blood   and   brain 

Here  fountains  flow, 
Birds  sing,  beasts  feed,  fish  leap,  and  the  Earth  stands  fast ; 
Above  are  restless  motions,  running  lights, 
Vast  circling  azure,  giddy  clouds,  days,  nights. 

And  so  the  hours  pass  by  in  duties  and  in  delights, 
until  the  glorious  evening  fades,  and   we  can  say  that 


128  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbe^'t,  Vatighan 

one  more  sun  is  strung  on  our  bead  of  days.  The 
moralising  and  even  the  piety  of  the  "  Church-porch  " 
read  somewhat  like  copy-book  headlines  for  the  good 
children  of  Bemerton  parish.  Vaughan's  rules  imply 
a  larger  spirit  of  duty — duty  in  whose  footing  treads 
fragrance,  and  through  whom  the  ancient  heavens  are 
fresh  and  strong. 

Richard  Crash  aw  passed  from  the  Anglican  Com- 
munion to  the  Catholicism  of  Rome.  His  body  lies  in 
the  Chapel  of  Loretto,  where  for  a  few  weeks  he  was  a 
sub-canon,  and  where  he  died  in  1650.  But  before  he 
left  the  Church  of  England  his  religious  passion  had  been 
heightened  and  inflamed  by  the  writings  of  the  great 
Spanish  mystics.  At  Cambridge  it  was  "in  the  temple 
of  God,  under  His  wing,  he  led  his  life,  in  St  Mary's 
Church,  near  St  Peter's  College  ;  there  he  lodged  under 
Tertullian's  roof  of  angels;  there  he  made  his  nest  more 
gladly  than  David's  swallow  near  the  house  of  God, 
where  like  a  primitive  saint,  he  offered  more  prayers 
in  the  night  than  others  usually  oflfer  in  the  day."^ 
Perhaps  he  made  acquaintance  with  Herbert's  poems 
under  the  guidance  of  Herbert's  editor,  Nicholas  Ferrar, 
in  the  devout  community  of  Gidding.  The  descrip- 
tion of  a  religious  house  which  he  found  in  Barclay's 
"  Argenis,"  and  rendered  into  English  verse,  aptly  ap- 
plies itself  to  the  life  of  those  pious  recluses  who  kept 
the  lamp  of  prayer  burning  the  whole  night  through, 
who  translated  Valdesso,  compiled  their  Concordances 
of  the   Scriptures,   and   knew   how   to   bind   a  precious 

1  ' '  Steps  to   the  Temple " :    tlie  Preface  to  the  Reader.     The  word 
"nest"  can  never  be  resisted  by  Crashaw  ;  it  nestles  in  nearly  every  poem. 


Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vattghan   129 

volume  in  purple  velvet  stamped  with  acorn,  sprigs  of 
oak,  and  fleurs-de-lis: 

A  hasty  portion  of  prescribed  sleep, 
Obedient  slumbers  that  can  wake  and  weep. 

[For]  reverent  discipline,  and  religious  fear, 
And  soft  obedience  find  sweet  biding  here. 
Silence  and  sacred  rest,  peace  and  pure  joys. 
Kind  loves  keep  house,  lie  close,  make  no  noise. 

The  hands  of  Mary  Collett  may  have  helped  to  bind 

the  little  prayer  book  given  to  a  young  gentlewoman, 

"  M.  R,"  and   enhanced  in  its  value  by  the  ode  which 

Crashaw  prefixed: 

A  nest  of  new-born  sweets  ; 
Wliose  native  fires  disdaining 
To  lie  thus  folded,  and  complaining 
Of  these  ignoble  sheets. 
Affect  more  comely  bands. 
Fair  one,  from  thy  kind  hands. 
And  confidently  look 
To  find  the  rest 
Of  a  rich  binding  in  your  breast.^ 

It  was  not  ''the  soothing  tendency  of  the  Prayer 
Book"  that  attracted  Crashaw  ;  he  found  in  the  end 
that  its  ''  native  fires"  were  too  little  ebullient  to  satisfy 
a  '*  flaming  heart." 

The  "pious  orgies"  of  Crashaw's  muse  belong  to  a, 
world   remote   from   the   "decent  prayers"    of  Herbert.  ' 
He   commends  the   poems   of   Herbert  in   a  copy  sent 
to  another  gentlewoman  than  M.  R.  (in  the  Dionysiac 
mysteries  gentlewomen  may  toss  the  thyrsus)  but  his 
commendation  would  hardly  have  been  to  the  taste  of 

^  See  '*  Nicholas  Ferrar,  his  Household  and  his  Friends,"  edited  by  the 
Rev.  T.  T.  Carter,  pp.  235,  236. 

I 


130  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughart 

the  parish  priest  of  Bemerton  ;  the  lady's  eyes  are  to 
kindle  Herbert's  sacrifice  ;  when  her  white  hands  open 
the  volume  she  will  hold  an  angel  by  the  wings — an 
angel  who  would  gladly 

flutter  in  the  balmy  air 
Of  your  well-perfumed  prayer. 

The  country  parson,  who  in  a  state  of  virginity  would 
never  have  spoken  to  a  woman  alone,  might  have  chosen 
rather  to  take  flight  than  to  flutter  in  the  cell  of 
Crashaw's  ''fairest." 

Crashaw  is  as  far  removed  from  Vaughan.      Vaughan 

is  the  mystic  (if  we  must  use  that  inappropriate  term) 

of  light ;    Crashaw   is   the   mystic   of  flame.      It  is  not 

strange    that    Herbert    should    have    innocently   played 

with  pious  fancies,  or  should  have  fitted  his  metaphors 

to  his  ideas,  tooth  by  tooth,  and  have  given  the  pretty 

cog-wheel  a  twist.      But  we  may  wonder  that  the  fire  of 

Crashaw's  ardour  did  not  burn  away  the  tinsel  ornament 

of  the  school  of  Marino.      It  is  to  be   feared   that  the 

language  of  mysticism  may,  when  the  mood  cools,  itself 

degenerate  into  a  trick.      Neither  Vaughan  nor  Herbert 

(  equalled  Crashaw  in  his  greatest  lines;  all  the  eagle,  all 

the  dove   were   for  a  moment  in  his  genius ;   his  face 

might   well    have    appeared    in    some    Italian    painting 

among  those  of  the  "  bright  youth  of  heaven,"  who  in 

his  own  poem  bear  our  Blessed  Lady  through  the  clouds 

on  golden  wings,  and  sing  "under  so  sweet  a  burden"; 

he  alone  among  poets  of  his  time  was  capable  of  receiving 

the  full  "dower  of  liglits  and  fires"  from  that  Britomart 

of  Spanish  piety.  Saint  Teresa.      But  the  live  coal  may 


Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,   Vatigkan   131 

fade,  the  altar-flame  may  sink,  and  still  it  may  be 
possible  to  manipulate  the  conventional  terms — "love's 
delicious  fires,"  ''  sweet  pains,"  "  intolerable  joys," 
''amorous  languishments,"  "luminous  trances,"  "dear 
and  divine  annihilations."  And  so  we  may  come  to 
respect  such  modest  pieties  and  edifying  counsel  as  the 
country  parson,  even  in  the  porch  of  the  temple,  com- 
mends to  our  hearts  and  conscience.  The  irradiation  in 
Yaughan's  best  poems  is  too  pure  and  various  ever  to 
pall  upon  the  spirit  of  sense  within  us.  The  "  amorous 
languishments"  of  Crashaw  may  for  a  time  melt  our  will 
in  a  divine  voluptuousness;  and  then  it  comes  to  our 
recollection  that  the  great  saints  often  found  more 
spiritual  gain  in  aridity  than  in  sweetness.  Saint 
Teresa's  euloo^ist  miofht  well  have  remembered  her 
strong  good-sense,  her  power  of  wise  organisation,  her 
genuine  feeling  of  humour. 

Crashaw's  flame  is  full  of  changfinor  colour;  at  its 
purest,  the  flame  is  varied  with  beautiful  surprises ;  but 
if  coloured  lights  fail  him,  the  poet  is  well  pleased  with 
what  Bacon  calls  the  "oes  aud  spangs"  of  tinsel. 
Calculated  hyperboles,  neat  extravagances,  the  ineffable 
set  forth  by  a  fanciful  identity  of  contradictories — 
flaming  fountains,  weeping  fires,  gold  hair  that  is  a 
wandering  mine,  eyes  that  are  walking  baths,  and  what- 
ever else  can  unhinge  the  sanity  of  imagination,  are  after 
all  poor  temptations  to  draw  a  true  poet  into  sin.  To 
criticise  Crashaw's  poetry  as  Johnson  criticised  Cowley's, 
from  the  standpoint  of  common-sense,  is  legitimate  and 
is  useful;  to  criticise  it  as  showing  a  defect  not  of  judg- 
ment but  of  true  passion  is  more  important.      There  is 


132  Anglo-Catholic  Poets :  Herbert,  Vaughaji 

something  to  admire  in  almost  every  poem  by  Crashaw; 
and  there  is  hardly  a  single  poem  that  we  can  admire 
with  a  good  conscience,  for  his  lyrical  ardour  was  too 
intermittent  to  enable  him  often  to  achieve  a  beautiful 
whole.  True  love  should  lead  to  quiet,  or  at  least  to  con- 
fidence in  its  theme;  Crashaw  is  always  alert  for  dazzling 
legerdemain  of  pious  fancy,  and  so  little  trusts  his  theme 
that  he  must  bedizen  it  with  every  paltry  bead  and 
spangle  of  cheap  religious  merchandize.  He  praises 
austerity;  and  his  converted  muse  still  loves  the  ear- 
rings, the  crisping-pins,  and  the  pots  of  rouge.  Where 
Herbert  could  be  content  with  a  field  daisy  for  an 
offering,  Crashaw^  must  fasten  with  wire  to  his  Magdalen 
or  his  Viro^in  a  brilliant  basketful  of  roses  in  coloured 
muslin. 


V 

MILTON:    CIVIL    LIBERTY 


Milton's  prose  works  form  the  true  complement  of  his 
poems.  Two  words  may  be  said  to  express  in  brief 
the  tendency  of  his  total  effort  as  a  poet  and  as  a 
combatant  in  prose — the  words  liberty  and  obedience. 
All  his  greater  writings  in  verse  revolve  around  the 
idea  of  obedience ;  all  his  writings  in  prose  are 
concerned  with  liberty,  with  deliverance  from  a 
lower  rule  as  the  condition  of  obedience  to  a  higher 
rule.  He  wages  war  against  custom,  tradition, 
tyranny  in  Church  and  in  State,  for  the  sake  of 
what  seems  to  him  a  nobler  order  and  a  stricter 
allegiance.  Loyalty  to  the  Divine  order,  a  free 
obedience  to  that  law  which  is  supremely  righteous 
is   Milton's   dominant  idea. 

His  writings  in  prose,  taken  as  a  whole,  are 
commonly  represented  as  of  temporary  and  transitory 
interest,  claiming  attention  in  their  own  day  but  with 
little  significance  for  ours.  The  political  historian 
notices  them  in  passing  as  incidents  of  a  period  of 
oivil  and  religious  strife.  The  biographer  is  tempted 
to  regard  them  as  an  unhappy  episode  which  diverted 
the  poet  from  his  true  line  of  development ;  he  points 
to    them,    with    Mark    Pattison,    as    examples    of  "  the 

133 


134  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

prostitution  of  genius  to  political  party,"  The  his- 
torian of  literature  rescues  from  them  certain  shining 
passages,  in  which  Milton  vindicates  his  past  or  utters 
his  lofty  aspirations  for  the  future  ;  the  rest,  heavy 
with  the  dross  of  circumstance,  is  allowed  to  sink  under 
the  waters  of  oblivion.  This  is  to  misconceive  the 
real  worth  of  what  Milton  wrote.  It  is  true  that  his 
pamphlets  are  encumbered  with  much  matter  which 
concerned  the  seventeenth  century,  and  which  has 
long  since  ceased  to  interest  England  and  Englishmen. 
But  behind  all  that  is  occasional  lies  what  gives  these 
writings  an  enduring  value^ — a  series  of  ideals,  more 
lofty,  complete,  and  in  a  high  sense  reasonable,  than 
can  readily  be  found  elsewhere  among  his  contem- 
poraries, ideals  for  the  domestic  and  the  corporate 
life  of  England,  which  form  a  lasting  contribution 
to  the  higher  thought  of  our  country.  The  refulgent 
passages  may  be  presented  in  a  collection  of  extracts ; 
but  that  which  is  of  highest  virtue,  that  which  shines 
with  the  steadiest  illumination  lives  through  the  gross 
body  of  these  huge  pamphlets  —  ideals  of  obedient 
freedom  and  of  free  obedience  in  the  duties  of  private 
and  public  life.  To  deliver  these  elements  of  enduring 
worth  from  the  wood,  hay,  stubble  of  seventeenth- 
century  controversy  is  not  only  of  some  service  in 
rendering  justice  to  the  memory  of  a  great  poet, 
but  may  be  an  aid  to  those  who  seek  in  the  past 
for  living  powers  to  enrich  and  invigorate  the  life 
of  our  own  time. 

His   ideals   for   the   family,   the   education   of  youth, 
the    freedom    of    the    individual    in   the    expression    of 


Milt 071 :  Civil  Liberty  135 

opinions    may   in    a    logical    order   take   precedence    of 
his   ideals   of  corporate   life,   civil   and    religious. 

II 

Milton's  discussion  of  the  principles  which  should 
regulate  the  relations  of  husband  and  wife  affords 
a  striking  illustration  of  the  passionate  impulsiveness 
of  his  temper,  and  of  the  way  in  which  his  reason 
was  ready  to  sustain  and  reinforce  his  passions.  Mr 
Masson  has  shown  that  the  first  pamphlet  on  divorce 
was  written  during  that  brief  period,  immediately 
following  his  first  marriage, —  a  few  weeks  —  which 
preceded  his  wife's  departure  from  the  unhappy  house 
in  Aldersgate  Street.  In  June  1643  Milton's  married 
life  began ;  on  August  1  of  the  same  year  his 
"  Doctrine  and  Discipline  of  Divorce,  Restored "  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  public.  On  a  sudden  Milton 
accepted  the  bond  of  wedlock ;  as  suddenly  he  desired 
to  cast  the  bond  away.  Did  any  other  illustrious 
bridegroom,  known  to  history,  beguile  the  honeymoon 
with  the  composition  of  a  treatise  on  the  benefits 
of  divorce  ?  It  is  like  the  violent  swing-round  of 
a  great  ship,  forging  swiftly  forward,  upon  the  cry 
of  ''  Breakers  ahead."  Shelley,  even  while  a  boy, 
never  acted  in  a  way  so  strange,  so  precipitate,  so 
alien  from  the  ordinary  standards  of  men  and  women. 
But  Milton  could  not  permit  himself  to  suppose  that 
he  yielded  to  a  mere  impulse  of  passion.  He  was 
the  servant  of  God,  the  champion  of  freedom,  the 
spokesman  for  a  people  ;  he  must  preserve  his  dignity, 
and    cherish    his    self  -  reverence ;     he    must    therefore 


136  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

justify  the  passion  to  his  own  reason  and  to  the 
reason  of  mankind  ;  he  must,  above  all,  prove  that 
the  law  of  God  was  on  his  side ;  he  must  argue 
out  the  whole  question  of  divorce.  Accordingly 
in  the  vehemence  of  his  perturbation,  but  alleging 
to  his  own  consciousness  that  thus  he  might  become 
a  great  public  Eeformer,  a  heroic  Deliverer,  removing 
from  men's  shoulders  a  burden  which  they  are  not 
able   to   bear,    he    rushed   into   print. 

The  Divorce  pamphlets  form  part  of  his  pleading 
on  behalf  of  domestic  liberty,  liberty,  that  is  to  say, 
for  God's  vicegerent  in  domestic  life — the  man  ;  as 
for  the  woman,  she,  according  to  the  Hebraic  doctrine 
of  Milton,  exists  not  as  an  independent  unit,  exists 
not  for  any  direct  relation  to  God,  but  for  God  in 
and  through  her  husband.^  What  is  more  essential 
for  a  life  of  heroic  energy  than  light  and  joy  in  the 
home  ?  If  these  are  unattainable,  the  sacred  freedom 
of  wedded  union  is  converted  into  the  most  grievous 
of  servitudes — a  servitude  to  sorrow.  Milton's  ideal 
of  marriage  is  a  lofty  one ;  wholly  unchivalric,  but 
perhaps  higher  than  the  chivalric  ideal  which  reserved 
its  songs  and  sighs  and  adorations  for  lovers  who  could 
not  be  wife  and  husband.  In  proportion  to  the 
loftiness  of  his  demands  and  expectations  was  the 
passionate  scorn  which  he  felt  for  his  timid  bride 
of  seventeen  years.  He  had  not  tired  of  her  as 
the    average    sensual    man    might,   after  a   time,   have 

^  In  one  passage  Milton  admits  that  if  a  wife  be  wiser  than  her 
husband,  she  may  rule,  the  law  of  sex  being  in  such  an  exceptional 
case  superseded  by  the  superior  law  that  power  should  belong  to  wisdom. 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  137 

tired ;    he  saw,   or  believed   he  saw,   that  the  spiritual 
incorporation,  which   is   the  essential  part  of  marriage, 
was    in    this    case    impossible.       He    pleaded    not    for 
license,    but,    as    he    held,    for    a    stricter    and    nobler 
marriage   rule,    in    which    rule    alone,   and   not    in    im- 
moral custom,  could  just  liberty  be  found  ;  he  pleaded 
for    this    in    the    name    of    reason,    of   the    soul,    of    a 
purer  life,  of  the  Divine  order  as  declared  in  Scripture. 
Honest    liberty,   he    assures    us,  is   the   greatest   foe   of 
dishonest  license  :   "  He  who  wisely  would  restrain  the 
reasonable   soul  of  man  within   due   bounds   must   first 
himself  know  perfectly  how  far   the   territory  extends 
of  just   and  honest   liberty."      It    seemed   to   him  that 
he,   a   private   man,  might   suggest  a  way  of  bettering 
the  internal  life  of  a  thousand   homes,  and  of  emanci- 
pating   a    multitude    of    sufferers    from     "  a    drooping 
and   disconsolate    household    captivity."      A    courageous 
individual  might  lead   the  way ;    England   should  then 
remember  her  precedence   in   teaching  nations   how  to 
live  ;   Parliament  might  remove  the  chains  which  were 
eating   into   the   flesh   of  many  victims  who   now  con- 
cealed  their  misery ;    the  whole  civilised   world   might 
follow   the  glorious   example  of   England ;    man    mio-ht 
again    resume    his  freedom    as    God's    noblest   creature. 
And   thus,   instructed   by   a   private    calamity,  he  him- 
self   might    play    the    part    of    a    great    deliverer.      It 
was    an    amazing    development    from    his    discovery  of 
a  week   or  two  that   Mary  Powell   had   proved   an  un- 
satisfactory   companion.       Looked    at    from    the    point 
of  view  here    indicated    the  first    Divorce  pamphlet  is 
a    prose-poem    in    honour   of    marriage   written    by  an 


138  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

uncompromising  idealist.  The  sufferings  of  Milton's 
young  bride  disappear  in  his  vision  of  a  great  nation 
exulting  in  its  deliverance  from  a  yoke  which  checked 
the  motions  of  joy  and  vigour  and  sacred  gratitude. 
Never  before  or  since  was  such  an  Epithalamium  sung. 

The  proposition  which  Miltou  aimed  at  establishing 
on  the  evidence  of  reason  and  of  Scripture  is  this — 
"  that  indisposition,  unfitness,  or  contrariety  of  mind, 
arising  from  a  cause  unchangeable,  hindering  and 
ever  likely  to  hinder  the  main  benefits  of  conjugal 
society,  which  are  solace  and  peace"  is  a  just  ground 
for  a  dissolution  of  marriage  to  be  pronounced  by 
God's  vicegerent,  the  husband.  It  seems  to  follow 
as  a  direct  consequence,  that  an  idealist  like  Milton, 
in  search  of  the  perfect  wife,  might  repeat  his  ex- 
periment until  Aldersgate  Street  was  strewed  with 
Mrs  Miltons  emeritce,  and  the  not-impossible  She 
was  at  last  found.  Mutual  consent,  he  admits,  is 
desirable  in  effecting  a  final  separation  ;  it  is  not 
absolutely  necessary.  Milton's  thesis  is  general,  but 
he  scarcely  attempts  to  veil  his  personal  interest  in 
the  matter :  "  A  discreet  man  may  be  mistaken  in 
his  choice.  .  .  .  The  soberest  and  best-governed  men 
are  least  practised  in  these  affairs ;  and  who  knows 
not  that  the  bashful  muteness  of  a  virgin  may  oft- 
times  hide  all  the  unliveliness  and  natural  sloth 
which  is  really  unfit  for  conversation."  Obviously 
we  have  a  picture  of  the  shy  Royalist  girl  in  pre- 
sence of  a  Puritan  admirer,  discreet,  sober  and  well- 
governed,  of  more  than  twice   her  age. 

Love,  Milton    tells   us,    was   the   son  of   Loneliness, 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  139 

begot  in  Paradise.  When  this  original  penury  or 
loneliness  of  soul  is  not  removed  by  marriage,  "  then 
enters  Hate,"  not  the  hate  that  sins,  but  an  in- 
evitable, ineradicable  dissatisfaction  ;  and  surely,  if 
the  woman  be  of  a  gentle  spirit,  not  to  be  beloved, 
and  yet  to  be  retained  as  a  domestic  appendage, 
would  be  the  highest  injury.  "  To  profane  that 
mystery  of  joy  and  union  " — true  wedlock — "  with  a 
polluting  sadness  and  perpetual  distemper,"  were  the 
greatest  wrong  ao^ainst  marriacre.  When  he  touches 
on  the  opinion  of  Beza  that  divorce  was  divinely 
permitted  for  the  release  of  afflicted  wives,  we  get 
a  glimpse  into  his  domestic  interior,  and  can  perceive 
some  of  the  causes  which  made  the  overawed  girl 
so  speedily  desirous  to  return  to  her  kinsfolk.  Divorce 
permitted  only  for  the  relief  of  wives  !  "  Palpably 
uxorious  ! "  cries  Milton  ;  "  who  can  be  ignorant  that 
woman  was  created  for  man,  not  man  for  woman, 
and  that  a  husband  may  be  injured  as  insufferably 
in  marriage  as  a  wife  ?  What  an  injury  it  is  after 
wedlock  not  to  be  beloved  !  What  to  be  slighted  I 
What  to  be  contended  with,  in  point  of  house-rule, 
which  is  the  head  ;  not  for  any  parity  of  wisdom, 
for  that  were  something  reasonable,  but  out  of  a 
female  pride."  So  quickly  can  the  bride  of  a  haughty 
idealist  accumulate  on  her  girlish  head  every  disquali- 
fication for  wifehood ;  so  remorseless  is  the  passion 
for  the  unattainable  perfection.  "  No  man  knows 
hell,"  writes  Milton,  "  like  him  who  converses  most 
in  heaven ;  so  there  is  none  that  can  estimate  the 
evil  and  the   affliction    of  a   natural    hatred  in  matri- 


140  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

mony,    unless    he    have    a    soul     gentle     enough     and 
spacious  enough   to  contemplate  what  is  true  love." 

The  art  of  creating  happiness,  the  most  beautiful 
and  most  difficult  of  the  fine  arts,  Milton  had  not 
studied.  His  genius  was  not  fired  by  the  ambition 
of  evoking  smiles  from  sadness.  But  his  pamphlet, 
futile  as  are  its  practical  suggestions,  is  still  of  worth 
as  a  plea  for  a  noble  joy  and  energy  in  domestic 
life  as  against  faintness  and  timidity  of  heart,  the 
lethargy  of  sadness  and  the  indolence  of  despair. 
The  Puritan  home,  as  he  conceived  it,  would  have 
been  one  of  heroic  gladness,  of  comradeship  in  aspir- 
ing thoughts  and  generous  deeds.  The  first  of  wifely 
duties  is  that  of  inward  and  spiritual  help ;  he  did 
not  reflect  how  difficult  is  the  part  which  he  assigns 
to  the  woman — that  of  confessed  inferiority  without 
inadequacy.  If  through  fault  of  nature  or  irremedi- 
able failure  of  heart  and  soul,  she  deserts  her  chief 
duty,  she  forfeits  thereby  all  right  to  wedded  happi- 
ness, and  her  fate  is  placed  in  her  husband's  hands. 
The  union,  as  he  conceived  it,  is  no  sacrament ;  it 
is  no  more  than  a  civil  contract  terminable  if  the 
purposes  of  the  contract  cannot  be  fulfilled.  The 
modern  divorce  court  Milton  would  have  looked  on 
as  causing  a  needless  injury  to  the  weaker  party. 
Why  bandy  up  and  down  a  wife's  unpleasingness,  he 
asks,  and  aggravate  it  in  open  court  by  hired 
masters  of  tongue-fence  ?  Far  better  is  it  that  the 
doom  should  be  pronounced  in  private ;  to  the  hus- 
band God  has  given  power  over  his  wife ;  let  him 
declare  that  the  contract  is  dissolved. 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  141 

Milton's  writings  on  the  subject  of  divorce  are  four 
in  number.  Two  of  these  may  be  disregarded.  Some 
months  after  the  second  edition  of  his  "  Doctrine  and 
Discipline  of  Divorce"  had  been  published,  Milton  dis- 
covered that  he  had  been  anticipated  in  an  expression 
of  the  same  opinions  by  an  eminent  divine  of  the 
Eeformation,  Martin  Bucer.  He  was  glad  to  have  the 
support  of  an  authority  in  high  credit  among  Protestants; 
accordingly  he  collected  from  Bucer  such  passages  as 
seemed  to  confirm  his  own  views.  The  book  is  devoid 
of  interest.  But  the  dedication  to  the  Parliament  of 
England  is  written  in  Milton's  lofty  manner.  If  anything 
generous,  noble,  and  above  the  multitude  were  left  in 
the  spirit  of  his  country,  he  felt  confident  that  it  might 
be  found  in  the  great  council  of  the  nation.  As  for 
himself  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  the  agent  of  some 
superintending  Providence,  prompting  him  to  labour  for 
the  general  good,  or  rather  no  agent,  but  a  "  passive 
instrument"  under  a  power  and  direction  higher  than 
human.  He  reverenced  himself  as  God's  envoy  to  his 
people  of  England.  As  a  poet  he  uttered  only  what  it 
was  given  him  to  say  by  the  Spirit ;  when  fallen  on  evil 
days  he  was  an  afflicted  champion,  like  Samson,  possessed 
of  a  divine  gift  of  invincible  strength,  which  one  day 
perhaps  might  overwhelm  the  Philistines.  Even  as  a 
pamphleteer  on  the  subject  of  divorce,  although  Milton 
was  aware  that  the  immediate  occasion  of  his  writing  was 
a  personal  grief,  he  was  still  "  no  other  than  a  passive 
instrument  under  some  power  and  counsel  higher  and 
better  than  can  be  human,  working  to  a  general  good  in 
the  whole  course  of  the   matter."      Perhaps  we  should 


142  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

reverence  Milton  more  if  he  could  for  a  moment  have 
been  a  mere  mortal,  aware  of  human  infirmities,  and 
capable  of  manly  protectiveness  to  one  whose  infirmities 
were  more  excusable  than  his  own.  But  it  was  his  way 
to  drive  haughtily  from  error  into  error. 

On  the  same  day,  March  4,  1644-45,  were  published 
*'  Colasterion,"  Milton's  answer  to  an  anonymous  critic, 
and  his  "  Tetrachordon."  The  former  of  these  was 
written  in  a  rage  of  scorn.  Milton  follows  his  adversary 
through  his  several  arguments,  the  seventh,  the  eighth, 
the  ninth  ;  he  denies  the  major ;  he  denies  the  minor  ; 
he  dashes  rock  and  stone  and  mud  of  abuse  and  objur- 
gation on  the  foeman's  head  ;  a  serving-man,  a  trivial 
fellow,  a  dolt,  a  pork,  a  phlegmy  clod,  an  idiot  by  breeding, 
a  nameless  hangman,  a  groom,  a  hoyden,  a  hobby-horse 
jesting  and  frisking  in  the  luxury  of  his  nonsense — such 
are  some  of  the  swashing  blows  of  the  controversialist 
who  wrote  as  ''  a  passive  instrument  under  some  power 
and  counsel  higher  and  better  than  can  be  human." 
The  rapier  of  satire  was  not  in  fashion  among  learned 
combatants ;  the  club  was  still  a  favourite  weapon.  Yet 
some  fifty  years  earlier.  Hooker  had  conducted  his  con- 
troversy not  only  with  human  dignity  but  with  Christian 
charity.  Milton  followed  the  common  way  of  contention 
with  a  Berserker  fury  which  has  in  it  almost  a  touch  of 
genius  ;  it  is  impossible  to  be  more  insulting  than  he 
succeeded  in  being.  If  we  compare  such  an  urbane 
swordsman  as  Newman,  the  antagonist  of  Kingsley,  with 
the  mammoths  and  megatheria  of  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries,  who  tore  each  other  in  their  learned 
slime,  we  shall  see  reason  to  believe  in  the  evolution 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  143 

of  warfare,  with  all  its  decencies  and  tactics,  from  the 
epoch  of  the  antediluvian  combats  of  monsters.  The 
capacity  for  rage  and  scorn  is  admirable  ;  it  was  possessed 
in  abundant  measure  by  the  Hebrew  prophets  ;  but  their 
rage  and  scorn  were  purified  and  elevated.  It  is  assuredly 
a  trial  to  the  admirers  of  the  author  of  ''  Paradise  Lost " 
and  ''  Paradise  Regained  "  to  encounter  such  a  pamphlet 
as  "  Colasterion."  How  could  the  great  idealist,  who 
reverenced  himself  and  reverenced  what  was  above  him, 
lose  all  sense  of  dignity  and  decency  ?  The  answer  lies 
partly  in  the  fact  that  the  man  who  lives  in  ideas  is  often 
the  man  who  has  learnt  least  a  fitting  behaviour  towards 
persons;  the  individual  becomes  in  his  eyes  the  symbol 
of  a  hated  cause  ;  he  flings  himself  into  the  melee  with 
a  cry  of  "  I  do  well  to  be  angry."  Milton  could  soar  on 
the  steady  wings  of  an  albatross  ;  but  the  albatross  on 
deck  is  an  uns^ainlv  creature. 

In  ''  Tetrachordon  "  Milton  enters  upon  an  exposition 
of  the  four  chief  passages  of  Scripture  which  treat  of 
marriage  and  the  grounds  of  its  dissolution.  Whether 
we  as^ree  with  the  drift  of  his  aro^ument  or  not,  we  cannot 
but  admire  the  courageous  spirit  of  the  writer  and  the 
genuine  literary  feeling  which,  now  and  again,  he  brings 
to  bear  upon  the  interpretation  of  the  Bible.  Aspiration 
towards  a  life  of  active  righteousness  and  generous  pur- 
suit of  wisdom  breathes  throucrh  Milton's  words  a  life 
strong,  joyous,  free,  yet  obedient  to  the  highest  law. 
Christ  in  cancelling  the  handwriting  of  ordinances  has 
''  set  us  in  the  free  custody  of  His  love,  and  left  us  vic- 
torious under  the  guidance  of  His  living  Spirit,  not  under 
the   dead   letter,  to  follow  that  which  most  edifies,  most 


144  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

aids  and  furthers,  a  religious  life,  makes  us  holiest  and 
likest  to  His  immortal  image,  not  that  which  makes  us 
most  conformable  and  captive  to  civil  and  subordinate 
precepts."  And  as  he  has  this  ideal  of  a  life  strong  in 
the  pursuit  of  what  is  highest,  so  he  has  his  ideal  of  the 
blessedness  of  rest  and  refreshment  after  toil  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  home  :  "  No  mortal  nature  can  endure,, 
either  in  the  actions  of  religion  or  study  of  wisdom, 
without  some  time  slackening  the  cord  of  intense  thought 
and  labour,  which,  lest  we  should  think  faulty,  God 
Himself  conceals  us  not  His  own  recreations  before  the 
world  was  built.  '  I  was,'  saith  the  Eternal  Wisdom,. 
'  daily  His  delight,  playing  always  before  Him.'  And 
to  Him,  indeed,  wisdom  is  as  a  high  tower  of  pleasure, 
but  to  us  a  steep  hill,  and  we  toiling  ever  about  the 
bottom.  He  executes  with  ease  the  exploits  of  His 
omnipotence,  as  easy  as  with  us  it  is  to  will ;  but  no- 
worthy  enterprise  can  be  done  by  us  without  continual 
plodding,  and  wearisomeness  to  our  faint  and  sensitive 
abilities.  We  cannot  therefore  always  be  contemplative, 
or  pragmatical  abroad,  but  have  need  of  some  delightful 
intermission,  wherein  the  enlarged  soul  may  leave  off 
awhile  her  severe  schooling,  and  like  a  glad  youth  in 
wandering  vacancy,  may  keep  her  holidays  in  joy  and 
harmless  pastime."  Such  support  in  labour,  and  such 
refreshment  after  toil  Milton  had  not  found  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  girl-wife.  The  "  Tetrachordon,"  indeed,  is 
on  fire  with  pain.  Milton  describes  the  wedded  life  of 
those  who  are  not  united  in  spirit  as  the  life  of  "  deadly 
enemies  in  a  cage  together  "  ;  it  is  a  shipwreck  without 
haven  or  shore  ;  it  is  the  mere  carcase  of  a  marriage  ; 


Milton:   Civil  Liberty  145 

to  endeavour  to  establish  harmony  between  such  wedded 
adversaries  is  *'to  weave  a  garment  of  dry  sand."  The 
onl}''  effectual  remedy  for  such  inward  disruption  is 
complete  release.  Such  an  unhappy  couple  could  not 
desire  to  be  unhappy  parents  ;  they  are  disqualified  for 
true  fatherhood  and  motherhood.  If  children  are  already 
born,  let  them  follow  either  parent,  as  shall  be  agreed 
or  judged,  quitting  the  house  of  hatred  and  discord  for 
a  place  of  more  holy  and  peaceable  education. 

Passion  with  such  a  mind  as  Milton  naturally  tends 
to  generalisation.  His  private  grief  led  him  to  an 
enquiry  into  first  principles.  Our  rew^ard  for  wading 
through  the  sandy  wastes  of  controversy  is  that  Milton 
conducts  us,  as  almost  always  is  the  case,  to  an  altitude 
from  which  a  noble  prospect  may  be  viewed.  Although 
he  accepts  the  Hebraic  teaching  that 

God's  universal  law- 
Gave  to  the  man  despotic  power 
Over  his  female  in  due  awe, 
Not  from  that  right  to  part  an  hour 
Smile  she  or  lour — 

although  he  asserts  the  inferiority  of  woman,  his  con- 
ception of  marriage  is  more  honourable  to  woman  than 
the  chivalric  conception.  Wedded  happiness  resides  in 
a  union  of  hand  and  heart  for  spiritual  service,  for 
joyous  energy,  and  for  delighted  refreshment  after  toil  : 

Favoured  of  Heaven  who  finds 

One  virtuous,  rarely  found, 

That  in  domestic  good  combines  ! 

Happy  that  house  !  his  way  to  peace  is  smooth. 

The  condemnation   of   Dalila  is  Milton's  homage   to 

K 


J 46  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

her  sex  as  truly  as  is  the  celebration  of  virginal  strength 
and  purity  in  "  Comus." 

Ill 

In  his  classification  of  the  prose  writings  which  treat 
of  domestic  liberty  Milton  places  after  the  pamphlets  on 
divorce  his  letter  to  Hartlib  on  Education.      After  the 
wife  he  considers  the  child.      He  demanded  freedom  in 
the   training   of  the  youth   of  England,  but  only  such 
freedom   as  comes  throus^h  obedience  to  a   higher  and 
stricter  law  than  that  of  custom  and  tradition.      As  the 
divorce  pamphlets  are  not  merely  destructive    of  what 
Milton  regarded  as  the  tyranny  of  civil  and   canon  law, 
a  servitude  fatal  to  vigorous  joy,  but  are  also  constructive, 
presenting  his  ideal  of  the  true  union  of  husband  and 
wife,  so  his   Letter  on   Education  aims  at  destroying  a 
system  which  he  held  to  be  obsolete  and  enfeebling  only 
with  a  view  to  replace  it  by  a  more  exacting  as  well 
as   a    more    enlightened    discipline.       He    had    himself 
known  the  methods  of  the  University ;  he  had  himself 
practical  experience  as  a  teacher  of  youth.      IsTothing  is 
more  obvious  than  that   he  makes  extreme  demands  on 
the  energy  of  young  scholars,  and  expects  more  than  an 
average  student  can  attain  ;  but  by  one  who  has  the 
passion  for  perfection  much  may  be  accomplished  before 
one -and -twenty.      Milton    would    relieve    the    student 
from  many  idle  burdens  and  preposterous  exactions  ;  he 
would   gradate    studies    so    that   what  is    easy   should 
precede  what  is  difficult ;  and   he  had  a  modern  sense 
of  the  importance  of  vigorous  recreation.      It  would  be 
a  grave  mistake  to  suppose  that  he  wrote  as  a  phantast. 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  147 

enamoured  of  the  impossible.  His  scheme  of  education 
may  be  regarded  as  ideal,  as  a  guiding  light  by  which 
to  steer.  A  prudent  mariner,  whose  course  is  deter- 
mined by  the  observation  of  the  heavens,  will  know  how 
to  make  allowance,  with  hand  on  helm,  for  veering 
flaws  and  cross  and  counter  currents. 

The  tyranny  of  the  traditional  system,  against  which 
Milton  contends,  started  from  the  idea  of  making 
scholars  ;  scholarship  was  taken  to  consist  of  a  know- 
ledge of  the  classical  languages  ;  yet  even  with  this 
limited  object  in  view,  the  methods  adopted  could  end 
only  in  failure  :  methods,  in  themselves  vicious,  were 
languidly  pursued,  and  much  of  the  inestimable  season 
of  youth  was  squandered  in  sheer  idleness  ;  during  long 
"vacancies  "  what  had  been  learnt  was  more  than  half- 
foro:otten.  No  enthusiasm  for  knowledge  could  be 
aroused  by  such  a  system  ;  the  student,  invited  to  ''an 
asinine  feast  of  sow-thistles  and  brambles,"  lost  all  zeal 
for  learning. 

Milton  starts  with  the  idea  not  of  making  scholars, 
admirable  scholar  though  he  was,  but  of  making  men. 
A  religious  conception  lies  at  the  basis  of  his  proposed 
system  ;  man  has  fallen  from  his  original  high  estate  ; 
his  nature  has  shrimk  and  dwindled  in  the  absence  of 
the  light  and  warmth  needful  to  a  complete  and  vigorous 
humanity  ;  the  end  of  all  learning  is  not  to  instruct  us 
in  words  or  to  qualify  us  for  turning  out  an  elegant  copy 
of  Latin  verses  ;  its  end  is  religious — that  we  may  know 
God  aright,  and  out  of  that  knowledge  may  love  Him, 
imitate  Him,  and  be  like  Him.  To  be  a  complete  man 
is  to  be  God's  image  on  earth  ;  education  should  aim 


148  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

not  at  the  accomplishment  of  scholarship,  bat  at  the 
formation  of  manhood,  in  its  plenitude  of  intellect,  its 
energy  of  passions,  its  strength  of  will :  "  I  call  a  com- 
plete and  generous  education  that  which  fits  a  man  to 
perform  justly,  skilfully,  and  magnanimously  all  the 
offices  both  private  and  public  of  peace  and  war." 

If  "  to  know  God  aright"  be  the  first  end  of  educa- 
tion, the  Puritan  Milton  does  not  suppose  that  this 
knowledge  is  to  be  gained  solely  or  chiefly  from  churches 
and  creeds  and  catechisms,  or  even  from  Holy  Scripture. 
Through  the  visible  world,  through  the  nature  of  man, 
through  the  laws  of  human  society  we  make  acquaint- 
ance with  what  is  divine.  Through  sense  we  ascend 
to  spirit.  To  spell  our  lesson  aright  we  must  begin 
with  easy  and  simple  things.  The  external  world  lies 
spread  around  us,  and  it  is  God's  world  ;  let  us  try  to 
understand  it,  and  thus  the  senses  may  become  inlets 
for  the  soul.  Man  is  God's  image  not  through  any 
special  faculty,  but  as  a  complete  creature.  Eeason, 
the  passions,  the  feeling  for  beauty,  the  energies  which 
tend  to  action,  strength  and  skill  of  hand,  the  principles 
of  public  conduct,  statesmanship,  law,  art,  war — all  are 
sacred,  because  all  are  portions  of  the  fully  developed 
life  of  man.  The  whole  of  education  is  religious  ;  no 
fragment  of  it  can  be  called  profane.  Such  special 
instruction  in  religion  as  is  given  in  the  seminary  of 
Milton's  devising  is  built  into  the  general  body  of 
culture. 

The  uses  of  an  ideal  are  related  to  ends  rather  than 
to  means.  Milton's  proposed  means  may  be  at  times  ill- 
chosen,  impracticable,  or  unsuited  to  the  present  day  ; 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  149 

his  ends  are  the  worthiest  and  the  highest  that  can  be 
conceived.  At  the  outset  he  would  above  all  else  arouse 
the  honest  pride  of  knowledge,  the  ardour  of  hope  in  his 
pupils  ;  they  are  to  be  "  enflamed  with  the  study  of 
learning  and  the  admiration  of  virtue  ;  stirred  up  with 
high  hopes  of  living  to  be  " — what?  masters  of  erudition? 
patterns  of  pedantry  ?  ascetic  saints  ?  No  :  but  "  brave 
men,  and  worthy  patriots,  dear  to  God,  and  famous  to 
all  ages."  Such  a  high  ambition  might  well  enter  into 
the  heart  of  a  spirited  boy,  inspired  by  the  words  and 
example  of  such  a  teacher  as  Milton  desired  to  see. 

Then,  while  the  young  scholars  are  acquiring  the 
elementary  principles  of  science  and  receiving  their  first 
lessons  in  language,  let  them  look  around  and  learn  a 
manly  reverence  for  their  mother  Earth.  Let  it  be 
part  of  their  ambition  to  leave  some  piece  of  England 
better  than  they  found  it  for  the  needs  of  their  fellows 
who  till  the  soil  and  cast  the  seed ;  such  a  task  is 
worthy  of  heroes  ;  "  this  was  one  of  Hercules'  praises." 
The  old  books  which  tell  of  agriculture  and  country 
life  will  not  seem  idle  or  dull  to  them  if  they  consort 
with  professors  not  bred  in  the^  library  but  smelling  of 
the  fields,  true  and  honest  enchanters  to  a  vigorous  boy 
— hunters  and  fowlers,  fishermen  and  shepherds  and 
gardeners,  themselves  the  brave  children  of  Earth. 
Let  them  extend  their  view  beyond  the  hills  and  fields 
of  England,  and  through  maps  and  globes  embrace  the 
prospect  of  this  world  which  is  our  appointed  home  and 
habitation ;  let  them  look  upwards  on  a  starry  night 
and  read  the  meaning  of  the  heavens.  And  as  they 
progress  in  their  knowledge  of  mathematical  and  physical 


1 50  Milton  :  Civil  Liberty 

science,  let  them  learn  how  needful  are  these  to  the  life 
of  human  society,  receiving  the  lesson  not  from  the 
lecturer's  chair  but  from  engineers  and  architects  and 
mariners  and  anatomists.  Let  their  studies  in  literature 
go  hand  in  hand  with  their  studies  in  science  and  in 
the  arts  of  life.  The  poetry  which  treats  of  nature,  of 
the  ways  of  rural  toil,  and  of  the  crafts  of  primitive 
society,  will  be  for  them  no  weary  exercises  in  syntax 
and  prosody,  but  will  insensibly  add  an  ideal  charm  to 
what  they  have  come  to  know  as  part  of  the  glad 
realities  of  earth. 

Having  observed  the  outer  world,  Milton's  pupils  have 
reached  that  moment  of  culture  when  they  may  look 
within  ;  having  surveyed  the  life  of  man  in  relation  to 
external  nature,  they  may  advance  to  the  study  of  man 
in  relation  to  his  fellows.  The  laws  of  personal  conduct 
may  be  read  in  the  ancient  moralists,  and  before  the 
serious  close  of  each  day's  task,  by  lamplight,  in  the 
pages  of  Hebrew  singer,  evangelist,  or  apostle.  From 
the  principles  of  individual  duty,  the  student  of  the 
moral  world  advances  to  the  laws  of  the  household  ;  and 
as  these  are  investigated,  he  may  see  them  put  into 
action,  and  pregnant  with  laughter  and  with  tears,  in 
the  comedies,  classical  or  Italian,  and  the  great  tragedies 
that  present  the  characters  and  fortunes  of  parent  and 
child,  and  lover  and  wife  and  husband.  One  further 
stage,  and  he  passes  on  to  politics — the  life  of  man  in 
the  commonwealth — to  the  principles  of  public  justice, 
to  the  history  of  ecclesiastical  organisations,  and,  in  con- 
nection with  this,  to  the  highest  matter  of  theology. 
And  this  is  surely  the  moment  when  he  can  feel  the 


Milton:  Civil Libei'ty  151 

life  that  pulses  in  those  supreme  works  of  art  which 
are  concerned  with  national  events,  with  the  good  of  a 
people,  the  glory  or  the  shame  of  dynasties  or  races — 
''  heroic  poems,  and  Attic  tragedies  of  stateliest  import 
and  most  regal  argument,  with  all  the  famous  political 
orations." 

It  remains,  when  these  have  been  felt  and  enjoyed, 
to  investigate  their  principles  and  method  in  logic, 
rhetoric,  and  poetics.^  He  only  who  has  studied  the 
laws  and  possibilities  of  art  can  fully  know  "  what 
religious,  what  glorious  and  magnificent  use  might  be 
made  of  poetry  both  in  divine  and  human  things." 
When  nature  and  man  as  an  individual  and  in  society 
have  thus  been  explored,  when  the  laws  of  reasoning, 
of  persuasion,  and  of  fine  art  have  been  ascertained, 
when  in  truth  "  an  universal  insight  into  things  "  has 
been  attained,  then,  and  not  until  then,  may  Milton's 
pupils  aspire  to  become  orators  or  writers.  They  will 
have  something  to  say ;  they  will  have  learnt  by 
example  and  by  precept  how  to  say  it.  A  rational 
sequence  and  an  enlightened  co-ordination  of  studies 
is  attempted  throughout  Milton's  entire  scheme ;  he 
endeavours  to  make  it  from  first  to  last  coherent,  so 
that  the  learners,  as  he  says  in  his  magnificent  way, 
may  at  length  "have  confirmed  and  solidly  united  the 
whole  body  of  their  perfected  knowledge,  like  the  last 
embattelincr  of  a  Roman  leojion." 

1  The  often-quoted  sentence,  attributed  to  Milton,  that  poetry  should 
be  simple,  sensuous,  and  passionate  is  not  to  be  found  in  his  writings. 
What  he  says  is  that  Poetry,  by  which  he  means  Poetics,  being  "less 
subtle  and  fine,  but  more  simple,  sensuous,  and  passionate  "  than  Logic  or 
Rhetoric,  should  on  this  account  precede  them  in  the  order  of  studies. 


152  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

But  the  ideal  man,  God's  image  on  earth,  is  not  yet 
complete,  nor  as  yet  is  he  qualified  for  the  full  duties  of 
citizenship.  Milton  honours  the  body,  and  regards  its 
energy  as  a  tributary  which  broadens  and  deepens  the 
energy  of  the  soul.  The  athletics  which  he  commends 
are  not  sports  but  heroic  duties,  yet  duties  which  are 
also  delights.  They  are  of  two  orders — individual  and 
social ;  some  are  designed  for  the  uses  of  war,  some  for 
the  uses  of  peace.  The  exact  practice  of  the  sword,  the 
locks  and  grips  of  wrestling,  concerted  military  evolu- 
tions on  foot  and  on  horseback,  training,  if  it  can  be 
had,  on  shipboard,  will  prepare  the  youths  to  be  "  re- 
nowned and  perfect  commanders "  at  their  country's 
need.  But  they  must  also  learn  through  active 
pleasure,  without  toil,  riding  abroad,  "  in  those  vernal 
seasons  of  the  year  when  the  air  is  calm  and  pleasant," 
when  indeed  *'it  were  an  injury  and  sullenness  against 
nature  not  to  go  out  and  see  her  riches,  and  partake 
in  her  rejoicing  with  heaven  and  earth."  All  the  more 
strenuous  exercises  and  recreations  are  designed  by 
Milton  not  merely  to  strengthen  the  muscle  and  in- 
vigorate the  lungs,  but  to  promote  true  fortitude  and 
patience,  so  laying  the  basis  on  which  to  build  up  a 
heroic  valour  and  a  hatred  of  wrong-doing  as  a  form  of 
cowardice. 

His  young  athletes  are  at  the  same  time  to  be 
educated  by  the  delights  of  fine  art.  Milton,  himself 
a  lover  of  music,  the  son  of  an  accomplished  composer, 
accepts  the  doctrine  of  Plato  that  melody  and  harmony 
have  a  true  formative  effect  upon  character.  His  earlier 
poems  possess  something  of  the  quality  of  the  lute ;  his 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  153 

later  poems  are  breathed,  as  it  were,  from  the  stops  of 
an  organ  ;  he  names  these  two  instruments,  which  had 
a  certain  kinship  with  his  genius,  as  of  refining  and 
calming,  or  arousing  and  elevating,  influence.  Sweet 
concords  of  voices  are  also  to  play  upon  the  spirit  in 
sense  of  the  youths  in  his  ideal  academy,  telling  of 
religious  joy  or  martial  enthusiasm,  or  the  delights  of 
peaceful  life. 

Religion,  science,  literature,  art,  manly  exercises  of 
the  body — all  of  these  enter  into  Milton's  scheme ;  each 
is  kept  in  close  communion  or  interaction  with  the  rest, 
and  one  and  all  are  directed  towards,  not  learning 
merely,  but  life.  Science  ceases  to  be  abstract,  and  is 
viewed  in  connection  with  the  arts  and  crafts  which 
give  application  to  its  principles.  The  study  of  litera- 
ture in  all  its  forms,  up  to  the  highest,  remains  ;  but 
real  things  (as  they  are  called)  serve  to  quicken  and 
vitalise  the  feeling  for  literature.  Great  poems  are 
seen  and  felt  in  relation  to  human  life — the  life  of  the 
individual,  of  the  household,  of  the  commonwealth.  It 
may  have  been  an  error  to  suppose  that  a  young  reader 
can  fully  acquire  such  a  power  of  interpreting  art ;  but 
Milton's  method  would  at  least  put  him  on  the  way  to 
acquire  it.  If  his  scheme  have  no  other  value,  it  is 
assuredly  significant  as  to  Milton's  manner  of  regarding 
literature  and  its  function  in  society.  But  in  truth 
no  more  majestic  ideal  of  education  is  elsewhere  to  be 
found  ;  it  is  the  ideal  of  the  Christianised  Renaissance, 
of  Hebraism  and  Hellenism  brought  into  harmony. 
The  Letter  to  Hartlib  is  a  soul-animating  strain,  which, 
if  we  cannot  literally  translate  it  into  a  method  or  an 


154  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

institution,  may  serve  as  a  guiding-light,  or  as  a  heroic 
call — Siirsum  cor  da — to  those  who  undertake  the  sacred 
charge  of  youth. 

IV 

A  great  and  courageous  faith  in  human  nature  and  its 
possibilities  underlies  what  Milton  has  written  on  educa- 
tion. The  same  faith  animates  the  ''  Speech  for  the 
Liberty  of  Unlicensed  Printing,"  which  completes  the 
cycle  of  writings  on  what  he  has  termed  Domestic 
Liberty.  He  knows  that  the  nature  of  man  is  fallen, 
and  that  we  move  in  the  midst  of  temptations ;  it  is 
our  part  to  accept  these  conditions  with  a  righteous 
boldness,  and  to  work  out  all  possible  good  from  things 
as  they  are.  He  would  have  us  grapple  with  evil 
as  heroic  combatants,  not  fly  from  its  presence :  "I 
cannot  praise. a  fugitive  and  cloistered  virtue,  unexercised 
and  unbreathed,  that  never  sees  her  adversary,  but 
slinks  out  of  the  race,  where  that  immortal  garland  is 
to  be  run  for,  not  without  dust  and  heat.  Assuredly  we 
bring  not  innocence  into  the  world,  we  bring  impurity 
much  rather ;  that  which  purifies  us  is  trial."  He 
chooses  '^  a  dram  of  well-doing  before  many  times  as 
much  of  the  forcible  hindrance  of  evil-doing."  He 
desires  freedom  in  the  utterance  of  opinions,  as  in  all 
other  matters,  not  because  he  loves  laxity  or  insubordina- 
tion, but  in  order  that  the  minds  of  individual  inquirers 
and  the  mind  of  the  whole  nation  may  come  under 
a  stricter  and  a  higher  rule  than  that  of  the  licenser. 
The  higher  rule  is  that  of  perpetual  progress  in  the 
never-ending    research    for    truth.       To    press    forward 


Milton  :  Civil  Liberty  155 

to  that  which  is  before  is  the  one  true  safeguard  against 
wanderings  into  the  illicit  by-paths  of  literature.  Such 
a  conjoint  effort  may  not  result  in  an  outward  uniformity 
of  belief,  but  it  ensures  an  union  of  spirit,  internal,  free, 
vital,  and  energetic,  the  only  union  which  is  to  be 
attained  on  earth.  The  body  of  truth  for  us  exists  in 
fragments  ;  our  task  is  to  gather  these  fragments  and  to 
bring  them  together,  until,  as  far  as  may  be,  the  original 
and  glorious  form  of  truth  reappear  living  and  moving 
amoncr  men.  "  The  lio-lit  which  we  have  g-ained," 
Milton  writes,  ''was  given  us,  not  to  be  ever  staring  on, 
but  by  it  to  discover  onward  things  more  remote  from 
our  knowledge."  This  is  our  law,  but  it  is  a  law  of 
liberty. 

Milton's  faith  in  human  nature  is  reinforced  by 
his  enthusiastic  confidence  in  his  own  nation  and  his 
own  time.  Great  experiments  in  the  affairs  of  Church 
and  State  were  being  made ;  a  new  epoch  of  reformation 
seemed  to  have  begun;  God  was  revealing  Himself 
more  fully  to  His  servants,  and,  "  as  His  manner  is, 
first  to  His  Englishmen."  Milton  looked  around  him, 
and  saw  in  his  country  an  universal  zeal  for  freedom, 
knowledge,  and  valiant  enterprise.  London  rose  before 
his  vision  as  a  huge  factory  in  which  were  being  forged 
the  weapons  of  truth  :  ''  Behold,  now,  this  vast  city  ; 
a  city  of  refuge,  the  mansion  house  of  liberty,  encom- 
past  and  surrounded  with  God's  protection  ;  the  shop 
of  war  hath  not  there  more  anvils  and  hammers  working, 
to  fashion  out  the  plates  and  instruments  of  armed 
Justice  in  defence  of  beleaguered  Truth,  than  there  be 
pens  and  heads  there,  sitting  by  their  studious  lamps. 


156  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

musing,  searching,  revolving  new  notions  and  ideas 
wherewith  to  present,  as  with  their  homage  and  their 
fealty,  the  approaching  Reformation  ;  others  as  fast  read- 
ing, trying  all  things,  assenting  to  the  force  of  reason 
and  convincement.  .  .  .  What  wants  there  to  such 
a  towardly  and  pregnant  soil  but  wise  and  faithful 
labourers,  to  make  a  knowing  people,  a  nation  of  pro- 
phets, of  sages,  and  of  worthies  ?  "  This  trumpet-call 
of  hope  and  confidence  is  touched  with  pathos  when 
we  contrast  it  with  the  sad,  yet  courageous  tone  of 
autobiographical  passages  of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  written 
when  Milton  had  fallen  on  evil  days,  or  with  the 
poem  of  the  blind  Samson,  for  whose  strength  no  other 
noble  use  remained  than  that  of  drawing  down  the 
roof-tree  in  a  common  ruin  of  his  enemies  and  himself. 

V 

Milton's  writings  in  defence  of  public  liberty  in 
England  have  for  their  centre  that  act  which  he  regarded 
as  a  solemn  vindication  of  justice  and  the  rights  of  an 
injured  and  insulted  people — the  execution  of  the  King. 
A  fortnight  after  the  death  of  Charles  he  came  forward 
to  identify  himself  by  the  publication  of  ''  The  Tenure 
of  Kings  and  Magistrates "  with  those  who  had  given 
a  great  example  of  tyrannicide.  The  pamphlet  may 
be  styled  the  Contrat  Social  of  Milton,  but  his  social 
contract  is  a  divine,  and  not  merely  a  human  ordinance. 
For  those  who  hesitated  to  take  the  responsibility  and 
the  praise  of  assisting  at  the  sentence  of  the  Court, 
those  who  "  coming  in  the  course  of  these  affairs  to  have 
their  share  in  great  actions,  above  the  form  of  law  or 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  157 

custom,  begin  to  swerve  and  almost  shiver  at  the 
grandeur  and  majesty  of  some  noble  deed,  as  if  they 
were  newly  entered  into  a  great  sin,"  he  feels  only 
a  commiserating  shame.  His  fierce  examination  of 
that  book  which  Eoyalists  regarded  as  the  precious 
testament  and  legacy  of  the  royal  martyr — the  ''  Eikon 
Basilike " — drew  Milton  into  a  controversy  which  re- 
sounded over  Europe.  There  is  much  in  these  political 
writings  of  merely  temporary  and  transitory  interest, 
much  that  is  truculent  in  temper ;  but  while  the  writer 
often  appears  as  a  man  in  armour  clambering,  sword 
in  hand,  heavily,  and  with  ungainly  postures,  among 
rocks,  of  a  sudden  he  puts  forth  wings,  and,  soaring 
in  upper  air,  looks  like  one  of  the  mailed  combatants 
of  his  own  augelic  w^arfare. 

The  late  Professor  of  History  at  Cambridge,  Sir  John 
Seeley,  in  a  luminous  study  of  Milton's  political  opinions,^ 
repels  with  some  indignation  the  notion  that  the  great 
poet  was  in  public  affairs  an  impracticable  dreamer. 
The  place  w^hich  he  assigns  to  IMilton  is  in  a  special 
group  of  thinkers,  including  among  those  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  Coleridge,  Ruskin,  and  Carlyle,  men 
of  genius  who  apply  to  politics  one  or  two  intense 
convictions.  With  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  national 
well-being  rare  among  his  contemporaries,  Milton  was 
equally  interested  in  the  political  and  the  religious 
revolutions  of  his  day,  and  from  his  high  point  of  vision 
could  regard  these  movements  as  essentially  one.  His 
large  concern  for  the  life  of  his  people  included  other 
elements  of  public  good — literature  and  education — of 

1  ** Lectures  and  Essays,"  1895,  pp.  97-130. 


158  Milton  :  Civil  Liberty 

which  politicians  and  ecclesiastical  reformers  thought 
but  little.  The  central  idea  to  which  he  gives  various 
applications,  is  that  of  liberty,  liberty,  however,  not 
for  its  own  sake,  but  as  increasing  vigour.  His  zeal 
on  behalf  of  strong  and  joyous  living  was  derived  partly 
from  his  own  sanguine  temperament,  and  partly  from 
the  spirit  of  courageous  hope  and  energy  which  ani- 
mated the  reforming  party  to  which  he  belonged.  They 
were  not  impatient  of  restraint :  ''  their  tendency  was 
rather  to  strictness  than  to  laxit}^  their  excess  was 
on  the  side  of  over-government."  What  they  opposed 
was  not  severity  but  inefficiency  of  government.  The 
same  idea  of  liberty  as  increasing  vigour  which  Milton 
applied  to  Church  and  State  he  applied  equally  to 
education  and   to  literature. 

The  criticism  is  just  and  goes  to  the  roots  of  the 
whole  matter ;  it  may  be  extended  so  as  to  include 
Milton's  writings  on  divorce.  Among  his  political 
pamphlets  one  in  a  special  degree  gives  an  interpreta- 
tion of  that  conception  which  is  central  in  all.  On  the 
eve  of  the  Restoration,  when  Monk  had  been  confirmed 
in  his  dictatorship  and  appointed  Captain  -  General, 
Milton  jDut  forth  his  scheme  of  republican  government 
in  "  The  Ready  and  Easy  Way  to  Establish  a  Free 
Commonwealth."  The  moment  was  one  of  the  utmost 
doubt  and  anxiety.  Milton's  sanguine  temper  was  at 
last  troubled  by  a  secret  despondency.  Yet  he  would, 
as  far  as  was  possible,  hold  up  his  head  bravely,  bate 
no  jot  of  heart  or  hope,  and  steer  right  onward  through 
the  waters  of  strife.  He  would  make  a  last  effort  on 
behalf  of  liberty ;   he  would   show  how  order  might  be 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  159 

educed  from  chaos,  readily  and  easily  if  only  reason  and 
courage  remained  with  Englishmen  ;  but  it  is  evident 
that  Milton's  hopes  for  his  country  were  more  than 
equipoised  by  his  fears. 

His  position  is  not  that  of  any  of  the  contending 
parties  or  fragments  of  parties.  He  declares  himself  in 
favour  of  a  free  commonwealth,  without  ''  Single  Per- 
son," whether  named  King  or  Protector,  and  without  a 
chamber  of  peers.  Yet  he  is  no  democrat  of  the  modern 
type.  A  mere  majority,  whether  in  Parliament  or  of 
the  people,  did  not  suffice,  in  Milton's  view,  to  settle 
anything.  A  majority  may  be  corrupt;  ''there  is  little 
virtue,"  he  says,  "  in  number."  A  licentious  and  un- 
bridled democracy  he  abhorred ;  he  honoured  what 
Burke  afterwards  called  a  natural  aristocracy,  and  he 
v/ould  distinguish  them  not  by  trappings  or  titles,  but 
by  grave  duties  and  laborious  tasks  performed  for  the 
public  welfare.  "  What  government,"  he  asks,  ''  comes 
nearer  to  the  precept  of  Christ  than  a  free  common- 
wealth, wherein  they  who  are  the  greatest  are  perpetual 
servants  and  drudges  to  the  public  at  their  own  cost 
and  charges ;  neglect  their  own  affairs,  yet  are  not 
elevated  above  their  brethren  ;  live  soberly  in  their 
families,  walk  the  street  as  other  men,  may  be  spoken 
to  freely,  familiarly,  friendly,  without  adoration  ? " 

But  how  was  a  free  commonwealth  to  be  established 
and  maintained  ?  How  was  a  vio;orous  crovernment  to 
arise  out  of  anarchy  and  the  liberty  of  England  to  be 
preserved  ?  Milton  distrusted  Parliaments,  which  with 
every  new  election  might  change  their  policy.  He 
desired,  after  so    many  vicissitudes    of  divided    rule,  a 


1 60  Milton :  Civil  Libei^ty 

continuity  of  order  and  a  continuity  of  progress  ;  this, 
he  believed,  could  be  attained  only  in  one  way — by  an 
oligarchy  of  wisdom  and  virtue  resting  upon  a  popular 
basis.  He  would  have  the  supreme  central  authority 
entrusted  not  to  a  Protector,  not  to  a  shifting  crowd  of 
delegates  elected  on  a  cry  of  the  hour  or  of  the  day,  but 
to  a  perpetual  Grand  Council  of  the  nation.  "  The  ship 
of  the  Commonwealth,"  he  writes,  "is  always  under  sail; 
they  sit  at  the  stern  ;  and  if  they  steer  well  what  need 
is  there  to  change  them,  it  being  rather  dangerous  ? " 

The  choice  of  these  rulers  of  the  people  could  not  be 
entrusted  to  ''  the  noise  and  shouting  of  a  rude  multi- 
tude." Duly  qualified  electors  might  nominate  a  body 
of  men,  from  whom  by  their  own  votes  a  smaller  body 
might  be  selected,  until  perhaps  *'  by  a  third  or  fourth 
sifting  and  refining  of  exactest  choice  they  only  be  left 
chosen  who  are  the  due  number  and  seem  by  most 
voices  the  worthiest."  Thus,  through  a  series  of  ex- 
clusions, a  band  of  true  patriots  might  be  found,  just 
guardians  of  the  liberty  of  England.  Should  it  appear 
that  the  permanence  of  this  Council  created  a  danger 
of  power  too  nearly  absolute,  or  excited  distrust  and 
jealousy,  or  excluded  other  deserving  persons  from 
authority,  an  arrangement  might  be  made  for  partial 
rotation,  by  which  a  third  part  of  the  Senators  should 
annually  retire  and  a  like  number  be  elected  in  their 
place.  Such  a  concession  might  prove  to  be  necessary 
or  expedient,  but  it  was  reluctantly  admitted  by  Milton. 
What  he  regarded  as  essential  was  a  strong  central 
government,  placed  above  the  risks  of  accident  and 
popular  passions. 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  i6i 

Here,  then,  was  a  supreme  authority  chosen,  but 
wisely  chosen,  by  the  nation,  and  having  power  to  deal 
with  all  imperial  affairs.  At  the  same  time  Milton 
desired  to  quicken  the  vigilance  and  zeal  of  the  whole 
people  ;  this,  he  believed,  could  be  accomplished  by  the 
delegation  of  power  in  local  matters  to  local  authorities. 
He  aimed  at  the  establishment  all  over  the  common- 
wealth of  a  system  of  vigorous  provincial  governments. 
In  every  chief  town  of  every  county  should  meet  a 
County  Council,  with  power  to  enact  such  laws  and 
regulations  for  the  county  as  might  seem  fit.  If  pro- 
vince should  conflict  wdth  province,  formulating  such 
rules  as  might  tend  to  disintegrate  the  Empire,  the 
several  County  Councils  should  meet  together  and 
determine  the  issue  by  a  vote  of  the  majority.  Thus 
Milton's  scheme  Avas  devised  with  a  view  to  secure  the 
advantages  of  centralisation  together  with  those  of  de- 
centralisation ;  its  object  was  to  establish  freedom,  but 
freedom  for  the  sake  of  vigour.  Many  minor  common- 
wealths were  to  flourish  under  the  supreme  authority 
of  one  imperial  commonwealth.  Among  the  subjects 
which  should  engage  the  attention  of  the  local  bodies, 
Milton  insists  strongly  on  the  importance  of  a  liberal 
system  of  education :  "  They  should  have  here  also 
schools  and  academies  at  their  own  choice,  wherein  the 
children  should  be  bred  up  in  their  own  sight  to  all 
learning  and  noble  education  ;  not  in  grammar  only, 
but  in  all  liberal  arts  and  exercises."  By  which 
generous  discipline  the  entire  people  of  England  might 
in  due  time  become  '*  flourishing,  virtuous,  noble,  and 
high-spirited."      The  question  of  religion  should  create 

L 


1 62  Milton:  Civil  Liberty 

no  difficulty  :  "  As  for  spiritual  liberty,  who  can  be  at 
rest,  who  can  enjoy  anything  in  this  world  with  con- 
tentment, who  hath  not  liberty  to  serve  God,  and  to 
save  his  soul,  according  to  the  best  light  which  God 
hath  planted  in  him  to  that  purpose,  by  the  reading  of 
His  revealed  will  and  the  teaching  of  His  Holy  Spirit  ? " 
Unfettered  freedom  of  conscience  was  the  only  law  which 
should  be  observed  in  things  spiritual. 

The  whole  scheme  is  of  peculiar  interest  as  exhibit- 
ing the  statesmanship  of  a  great  poet,  who  was  not 
without  some  training  in  public  affairs.  It  attracted 
immediate  attention,  and  was  fiercely  assailed.  In  the 
state  of  England  on  the  eve  of  the  Restoration  Milton's 
pamphlet  could  not  of  course  effect  its  immediate  pur- 
pose ;  but  its  underlying  principles  have  in  large 
measure  been  justified  by  time.  In  recent  years 
and  at  the  present  moment  the  need  of  a  supreme 
imperial  authority  working  in  harmony  with  a  sub- 
ordinate system  of  decentralisation  —  such  a  system 
as  can  enter  into  no  rivalry  with  the  central  power 
— has  been  and  is  recognised  as  in  no  previous  period. 
Throughout  the  pamphlet  Milton  appears  as  a  political 
thinker  whose  ends  are  in  a  high  sense  reasonable,  if 
the  means  proposed  for  attaining  those  ends  were  im- 
practicable ;  at  its  close  he  gathers  his  singing  gar- 
ments about  him  and  rises  into  the  prophet.  A 
prophet  not,  indeed,  altogether  of  hopeful  cheer,  but 
of  hope  mingled  with  fears,  and  of  dauntless  courage 
showing  through  both ;  "  What  I  have  spoken  is 
the  language  of  that  which  is  not  called  amiss  '  The 
good    old    Cause.'  .   .   .   Thus    much    I    should   perhaps 


Milton:  Civil  Liberty  163 

have  said,  though  I  was  sure  I  should  have  spoken 
only  to  trees  and  stones ;  and  had  none  to  cry  to 
but  with  the  prophet,  '  0  earth,  earth,  earth  ! '  to  tell 
the  very  soil  itself  what  her  perverse  inhabitants  are 
deaf  to.  Nay,  though  what  I  have  spoken  should 
happen  (which  Thou  suffer  not  who  didst  create  man- 
kind free  !  nor  Thou  next  who  didst  redeem  us  from 
being  servants  of  men  ! )  to  be  the  last  words  of  our 
expiring  liberty.  But  I  trust  I  have  spoken  per- 
suasion to  abundance  of  sensible  aud  ingenuous  men ; 
to  some  perhaps  whom  God  may  raise  from  these 
stones  to  become  children  of  reviving  liberty  .  .  . 
to  exhort  this  torrent  also  of  the  people  not  to  be 
so  itnpetuous,  but  to  keep  their  due  chaonel ;  and 
at  length  recovering  and  uniting  their  better  resolu- 
tions, now  that  they  see  already  how  open  and  un- 
bounded the  insolence  and  rage  is  of  our  common 
enemies,  to  stay  these  ruinous  proceedings,  justly  and 
timely  fearing  to  what  a  precipice  of  destruction  the 
deluge  of  this  epidemic  madness  would  hurry  us, 
through  the  general  defection  of  a  misguided  and 
abused  multitude."  The  last  stand  of  one  of  the 
company  of  Ironsides,  maintaining  the  good  old  cause 
against  overwhelming  odds,  is  a  spectacle  to  animate 
the  courage  of  Milton's  countrymen  in  every  great 
crisis  of  events. 


VI 

MILTON    II.— ECCLESIASTICAL    AND 
THEOLOaiCAL    LIBERTY:     POEMS 


Milton's  first  entrance  into  controversy  was  as  an 
ecclesiastical  reformer.  He  would  fain  have  been  a 
messenger  of  gladness  and  contentment  to  his  country- 
men, the  poet  that  he  was  born  to  be :  ''  but  when 
God  commands  to  take  a  trumpet,  and  blow  a  dolorous 
or  a  jarring  blast,  it  lies  not  in  man's  will  what  he 
shall  say,  or  what  he  shall  conceal."  His  quarrel 
with  the  Church  of  England  arose  from  his  con- 
viction that,  under  the  rule  of  Laud,  it  had  become 
destructive  of  spiritual  liberty  and  yet  did  not  gain 
in  spiritual  vigour.  His  conception  of  a  Christian 
commonwealth  assuredly  could  not  err  on  the  side 
of  laxity.  ''  Alas,  sir  !  "  he  writes,  ''  a  commonwealth 
ought  to  be  but  as  one  huge  Christian  personage, 
one  mighty  growth  and  stature  of  an  honest  man, 
as  big  and  compact  in  virtue  as  in  body."  Wisdom, 
virtue,  magnanimity,  likeness  to  God,  enjoin  and 
require  national  as  well  as  individual  self-government. 
The  invisible  divine  life  must  be  made  external,  not 
in  ornament  but  in  something  that  more  fitly  ex- 
presses it — in  conduct.  Is  there  to  be  discipline  in 
164 


Theological  L  iberty- — Poems  165 

the  home,  discipline  in  the  State,  and  no  discipline, 
or  an  infirm  and  servile  one,  in  the  Church  ?  ''There 
is  not  that  thing  in  the  world  of  more  grave  and 
urgent  importance  throughout  the  whole  life  of  man 
than  is  discipline ;  ...  she  is  that  which  with  her 
musical  cords  preserves  and  holds  all  the  parts  thereof 
together."  Its  function  is  not  so  much  to  repress 
as  to  strengthen  and  develop :  ''  Certainly  discipline 
is  not  only  the  removal  of  disorder,  but  if  any  visible 
shape  can  be  given  to  divine  things,  the  very  visible' 
shape  and  image  of  Virtue,  whereby  she  is  not  only 
seen  in  the  regular  gestures  and  motions  of  her 
heavenly  paces  as  she  walks,  but  also  makes  the 
harmony   of  her   voice   audible   to   mortal   ears." 

But  sound  discipline  in  things  spiritual  must  itself 
be  spiritual.  Fines,  exactions,  nose  -  slittings,  ear- 
croppings  were  not  regarded  by  Milton  as  the  methods 
of  Christ  or  of  His  apostles ;  the  extreme  punishment 
of  the  Church,  or  of  its  instigating,  can  be  no  more 
than  the  withdrawal  of  spiritual  communion.  Its 
officers  are  to  be  distinguished  not  by  worldly  titles 
and  carnal  pomp  but  by  brotherly  love,  matchless 
temperance,  frequent  fasting,  incessant  prayer  and 
preaching,  continual  watchings  and  labours,  truly  apos- 
tolical distinctions.  To  one  who  sees  with  purged  and 
lucid  vision,  the  grandeur  of  religion  is  degraded,  not 
enhanced,  by  mundane  power  and  splendour:  ''So 
long  as  the  Church,  in  true  imitation  of  Christ,  can 
be  content  to  ride  upon  an  ass,  carrying  herself  and 
her  government  along  in  a  mean  and  simple  guise,  she 
may  be,  as  he  is,  a  lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah ;  and  in 


1 66  Milton :  Ecclesiastical  and 

her  humility  all  men  with  loud  hosannas  will  confess  her 
greatness.  But  when,  despising  the  mighty  operation 
of  the  Spirit  by  the  weak  things  of  the  world,  she 
thinks  to  make  herself  bigger  and  more  considerable  by 
using  the  way  of  civil  force  and  jurisdiction,  as  she 
sits  upon  this  lion  she  changes  into  an  ass,  and  in- 
stead of  hosannas  every  man  pelts  her  with  stones  and 
dirt." 

A  part  of  the  policy  of  Laud  was  to  work  from  with- 
out inwards;  through  uniformity,  enforced  by  pains  and 
penalties,  he  trusted  that  unity  might  in  the  end  be 
attained  or  at  the  least  promoted.  As  regards  dogma, 
he  was  more  liberal  than  many  of  his  Puritan  adver- 
saries ;  as  regards  ceremonial  order,  he  would  tolerate 
no  irregularity.  Milton  desired  to  work  from  within 
outwards ;  religion  should  indeed  incarnate  itself  in 
visible  acts,  it  should  obtain  expression  and  exter- 
nality, not  in  ornament  or  symbol,  but  in  deeds  and 
lives  of  righteousness.  With  a  profound  sense  of  the 
majesty  of  religion,  all  glorious  within,  he  believed 
that  its  dignity  is  heightened  by  the  fact  that  its  ex- 
ternal habit  is  plain  and  homespun.  The  beauty  of 
holiness  is  seen  aright  only  in  the  living  temple  ;  shall 
altars,  and  cloths,  and  vessels,  be  profaned  by  the 
touch  of  a  lay  Christian,  who  is  himself  the  adopted 
child  of  the  Divine  Father?  If  the  feet  of  him  that 
bringeth  good  tidings  are  beautiful,  how  shall  the 
''spinstry"  of  ceremonies  add  to  their  decency  ?  Milton, 
a  poet  and  a  lover  of  comely  things,  is  ready  to  sacrifice 
the  lower  beauty  of  ornament  in  order  that  the  inrisible 
beauty    may  shine  forth  with  intenser  radiance.     The 


Theological  L  iberty — Poems  1 6  7 

"  chaste  and  modest  veil  "  of  Christ's  Gospel  "surrounded 
with  celestial  beams  "  loses  something  of  its  brightness 
if  it  be  overlaid  with  a  "  flaring  tire." 

Milton  thought  of  the  intercourse  between  God  and 
the  soul  as,  on  the  part  of  man,  an  indefatigable  soaring 
upward.  There  are  two  humilities — that  which  bows 
and  that  which  soars,  the  humility  of  a  servant  who 
looks  down,  the  humility  of  a  son  who  gazes  up. 
Milton's  humility  invigorates  itself  in  the  effort  to 
ascend.  He  would  not  prostrate  himself  in  the  presence 
of  material  symbols,  but  would  enter  as  a  glad  child 
into  the  courts  of  heaven.  He  suspects  a  rich  cere- 
monial because  it  seems  to  him  a  specious  mode  of 
easing  the  stress  of  devout  effort ;  the  soul,  with  flagging 
pinions,  "  shifts  off  from  herself  the  labour  of  high 
soaring."  He  honours  the  senses;  but  he  finds  within 
himself  a  faculty — not  the  intellect,  but  the  religious 
faculty — which  cleaves  its  way  past  things  of  sense,  and 
communes  wdth  the  unseen.  "  Our  understanding,"  he 
writes  in  the  Letter  on  Education,  "  cannot  in  this  body 
found  itself  but  on  sensible  things,  nor  arrive  so  clearly 
to  the  knowledge  of  God  and  things  invisible  as  by 
orderly  conning  over  the  visible  and  inferior  creature." 
That  is  God's  way  of  utilising  the  senses  for  religious 
purposes  ;  but  to  manufacture  an  artificial  body  of 
material  symbols,  neither  found  in  nature  nor  authorised 
by  the  Divine  word,  seemed  to  him  the  way  to  check 
or  hamper  the  soul  in  its  upward  flight.  Voluntary 
humility  before  material  objects  styled  sacred  belongs, 
as  Milton  conceives,  rather  to  a  religion  of  mingled  fear 
and  self-will  than  of  love  and  genuine  self-abandonment. 


1 68  Milton  :  Ecclesiastical  and 

The  true  attitude  of  the  soul  is  filial,  cheerful,  and 
courageous ;  son  and  Father  may  meet  face  to  face, 
without  servile  crouchings  or  the  veils  of  piebald 
frippery. 

Such  was  the  Puritan  position ;  but  it  is  enlarged 
and  strengthened  by  the  genius  of  its  defender.  He 
was  no  enemy  of  art,  as  were  some  of  those  who  stood 
upon  his  side ;  he  was  no  enemy  of  pleasure.  But, 
although  his  approved  polity  in  state  and  church  was 
in  theory  democratic,  Milton  was  deficient  in  popular 
sympathies.  He  found  in  the  sacred  writings  magnifi- 
cent examples  of  lyric  poetry,  as  well  as  of  tragedy 
(the  Apocalypse  of  St  John)  and  of  pastoral.  But 
in  the  Sunday  afternoon  dance  of  villagers  upon  the 
green,  permitted  by  the  Declaration  of  Sports,  he  saw 
only  a  provocation  to  drunkenness  and  lust.  Instead 
of  desiring  that  recreations  should  be  suppressed  by 
authority,  he  desired  that  the  pleasures  of  England 
might  be  regarded  by  the  government  as  part  of  a 
public  schooling,  and  might  be  studied  and  super- 
intended with  a  view  to  their  just  honour  an(i  stateliness: 
''It  were  happy  for  the  commonwealth  if  our  magistrates, 
as  in  those  famous  governments  of  old,  would  take  into 
their  care,  not  only  the  deciding  of  our  contentious  law- 
cases  and  brawls,  but  the  managing  of  our  public  sports 
and  festival  pastimes ;  that  they  might  be  .  .  .  such 
as  may  inure  and  harden  our  bodies  by  martial  exercises 
to  all  war-like  skill  and  performance,  and  may  civilise, 
adorn,  and  make  discreet  our  minds  by  the  learned  and 
affable  meeting  of  frequent  academies,  and  the  procure- 
ment   of  wise   and    artful    recitations,    sweetened   with 


Theological  L  iberty — Poems  169 

elegant  and  graceful  encitements  to  the  love  and  practice 
of  justice,  temperance,  and  fortitude,  instructing  and 
bettering  the  nation  at  all  opportunities,  that  the  call  of 
wisdom  and  virtue  may  be  heard  everywhere,  as  Solomon 
saith :  *  She  crieth  without,  she  uttereth  her  voice  in 
the  streets,  in  the  top  of  high  places,  in  the  chief 
concourse,  and  in  the  opening  of  the  gates.'  Whether 
this  may  not  be,  not  only  in  pulpits,  but  after  another 
persuasive  method,  at  set  and  solemn  paneguries,  in 
theatres,  porches,  or  what  other  place  or  way  may 
win  most  upon  the  people  to  receive  at  once  both 
recreation  and  instruction,  let  them  in  authority  con- 
sult." The  proposal  for  the  organisation  of  pleasure, 
its  recognition  and  development  with  government  aid, 
came  not  from  courtier  or  cavalier  but  from  the  Puritan 
Milton. 

In  his  liberality  tOAvards  differences  of  opinion  in 
matters  of  religion  Milton  had  more  in  common  with 
the  prelates  whom  he  so  passionately  attacked  than  with 
the  Presbyterian  party  on  whose  side  for  a  time  he 
ranged  himself  There  was  something  which  seemed 
to  him  a  greater  evil  than  a  conflict  of  sects — the 
insensibility  of  spiritual  palsy,  the  uniformity  of  intel- 
lectual death.  Weeds  do  not  flourish  in  a  December  frost; 
but  neither  do  wholesome  herbs  and  flowers.  He  had 
little  fear  of  the  "  fond  errors  "  and  "  fanatic  opinions  " 
which  arise  at  a  time  when  truth  and  error  engage 
in  fierce  encounter.  The  English  people  is  at  bottom  "a 
right  pious,  right  honest,  and  right  hardy  nation  "  ;  with 
wise  nurture  the  uncouth  opinions  of  a  period  of  excited 
conflict  will  gradually  pass  away.      Before  long  Milton 


1 70  Milton  :  Ecclesiastical  and 

discovered  that  his  friends  of  the  Westminster  Assembly 
were  themselves  the  chief  forcers  of  conscience  : 

"Men,  whose  life,  learning,  faith,  and  pure  intent, 
Would  have  been  held  in  high  esteem  with  Paul, 
Must  now  be  named  and  printed  heretics 
By  shallow  Edwards  and  Scotch  AVhat-d'ye-call." 

Unquestionably  Milton's  progress  to  broad  principles 
of  toleration  was  accelerated  by  the  fact  that  he  himself, 
the  advocate  of  divorce,  was  among  the  heretics ;  but 
his  personal  indignation  only  brought  more  vividly  into 
the  light  of  consciousness  what  had  lain  within  him 
from  the  first. 

In  the  same  year  in  which  Milton  proposed  his  ready 
and  easy  way  to  establish  a  free  commonwealth  he  turned 
away  from  his  great  epic  to  address  the  Parliament,  or  such 
members  of  it  as  Vane,  who  might  support  his  views 
on  the  subject  of  the  relations  of  Church  and  State. 
He  was  now  assured  that  their  respective  provinces  were 
of  right  distinct  and  separate.  The  civil  magistrate 
shall  not  lift  a  finger  against  any  form  of  religious  belief 
as  such.  Popery,  indeed,  cannot  be  tolerated,  but  this 
is  because  Popery  involves  allegiance  to  a  foreign 
sovereign.  For  the  rest,  the  law  of  Christian  liberty 
requires  that  every  man  be  free  to  search  the  Scriptures 
and  to  hold  fast  that  which  he  deems  good.  The  word 
heresy,  even  the  word  blasphemy  had  no  terrors  for 
Milton;  let  truth  and  error  grapple,  and  there  need  be 
no  fear  as  to  the  issue.  A  commonwealth  is  not  Christian 
because  it  establishes  one  form  of  religion,  but  because, 
establishing  none,  it  recognises  the  freedom  of  Christ, 


Theological  L iberty — Poems  lyi 

whose  kingdom   is  not  of  this  world,  and    of  all  those 
communities  which  make  up  the  Church  universal. 

Opinion,  however,  though  not  forced  may  be  bribed. 
Against  this  danger  also  Milton  would  guard.  Let  a 
free  ministry  be  supported  by  free  gifts  or,  like  Paul  the 
tent-maker,  by  the  labour  of  their  own  hands.  He 
thought  with  indignation  of  that  form  of  persecution,  as 
it  appeared  to  him,  which  consists  of  exactions  made  for 
the  benefit  of  spiritual  hirelings  bound  to  teach  some 
authorised  system  of  religious  belief.  Birth,  marriage, 
death — why  should  each  of  these  be  made  the  occasion 
of  taxing  the  poor  ?  Did  John  the  Forerunner  demand 
fees  for  baptising  or  Christ  for  His  christenings  ?  What 
scriptural  ground  is  there  for  the  meddling  of  priests 
with  the  contract  of  wedlock,  which  is  but  a  civil 
ordinance  ?  What  have  ministers  of  religion  to  do  with 
the  interment  of  a  corpse  ? 

If  villages  and  rural  districts  are  unable  to  maintain 
a  minister  without  a  system  of  ecclesiastical  taxation, 
the  state  of  things  is  not  desperate.  Have  they  not  the 
Scriptures  and  God's  assisting  spirit  ?  "  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  the  attainment  of  Christian  knowledge  that  men 
should  sit  all  their  life  long  at  the  feet  of  a  pulpited 
divine."  The  wealthier  congregations  may  of  their  good 
will  aid  the  poorer  by  sending  some  of  their  members 
on  circuit  as  itinerary  preachers  ;  let  these  appoint  duly 
qualified  elders  who  may  teach  and  govern  the  rest. 
Let  the  English  Scriptures  be  published  with  sufficient 
notes ;  let  a  body  of  divinity  be  issued  unencumbered 
with  scholastic  terms  and  metaphysical  notions.  Thus 
instructed  the  poor  folk  may  meet  for  mutual  edification 


172  Milton:  Ecclesiastical  and 

in  house   or  barn,   needing  neither  incumbent,  incum- 
brance, nor  incubus. 

That  the  whole  people  of  England  should  be  educated, 
spiritually  alive,  and  eager  for  things  of  the  mind,  was 
Milton's  aspiration  and  his  ideal.  He  was  a  prophet  of 
the  movement  for  free  national  education,  and,  holding 
that  a  collection  of  books  is  the  true  university,  a  prophet 
of  the  movement  for  free  libraries  of  public  endowment. 
The  writer  of  a  good  book,  the  teacher  of  youth,  the 
guardian  of  a  library,  he  viewed  as  members  of  the  true 
clerisy  of  a  nation,  more  diligent  for  the  general  welfare 
than  the  hired  parson,  pledged  to  a  particular  set  of 
opinions  and  droning  out  his  dole  on  one  day  in  seven 
to  earn  his  state  wages.  "  So  all  the  land  would  be 
soon  better  civilised,"  and  those  who  receive  the  free 
gift  of  education  might  reasonably  be  required  not  "to 
gad  far  out  of  their  own  country,"  but  continue  there, 
thankful  for  what  they  had  received,  bestowing  it  on 
others  as  need  arose,  without  soaring  above  the  rank  in 
which  they  were  born.  Education,  as  Milton  conceived 
it,  should  be  not  merely  literary ;  it  should  be  also 
technical ;  every  boy  should  be  taught  an  honest  trade. 
And  why  should  not  worthy  teachers  of  religion  arise 
from  among  such  cultivated  craftsmen  ?  Let  Christians 
but  know  their  own  dignity,  their  liberty,  their  adoption, 
their  spiritual  priesthood,  "whereby  they  have  all  equally 
access  to  any  ministerial  function,  whenever  called  by 
their  own  abilities  and  the  Church,  though  they  never 
came  near  commencement  or  university,"  let  them  but 
know  their  true  prerogatives,  and  with  liberty  a  new 
and  noble  vigour  will  be  infused  throughout  the  whole 


Theological  L  iberty — Poems  173 

spiritual  life  of  the  country.  If  Milton's  ideal  was  half 
a  dream,  it  was  also  half  a  prophecy.  Schools  and 
libraries  at  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century  in  some 
measure  realise  what  he  anticipated  in  his  vision.  And 
of  the  spiritual  teachers  of  our  century  not  a  few  of 
the  most  influential  have  been  unsalaried  by  the  State, 
sprung  from  the  people,  and  claiming  their  function 
by  no  other  title  than  their  ability.  "  Hirelings,"  as 
Milton  named  them,  have  not  been  removed  from  the 
Church ;  but  the  sense  of  responsibility  and  duty  has 
been  quickened  ;  side  by  side  with  the  national  church, 
the  free  churches  of  England  may  grow  unharried  and 
unharassed,  and  the  unorganised  clerisy  of  letters  has 
asserted  its  dignity  and  widened  its  sphere  of  influence. 

II 

Milton's  prose  writings  are  not  a  mirror  held  by  the 
artist  to  reflect  the  forms  of  his  own  time  ;  they  are  a 
sword  or  some  fiercer  two-handed  engine  wielded  on 
behalf  of  civil  and  religious  liberty ;  they  are  them- 
selves a  portion  of  the  strife.  The  illustrations  which 
they  afford  of  his  poems  are  found  in  occasional 
passages,  in  autobiographical  episodes  or  outbreaks, 
and  to  some  extent  in  their  general  spirit.  But 
among  the  prose  works  there  is  one  which  was  not 
written  in  a  combative  mood,  one  which  sets  forth  in 
great  detail  the  results  of  prolonged  research  after 
religious  truth,  a  work  begun  early,  but  probably,  in 
the  main,  of  Milton's  elder  years,  and  this  constitutes 
an  undesigned  commentary  upon  the  poems,  and  a 
eommentary   as   valuable    as    it   is    authoritative.      The 


174  Milton:  Ecclesiastical  and 

Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine,  a  Latin  manuscript, 
lay  forgotten  in  the  old  State  Paper  Office  until  the 
year  1823.  Milton  seems  to  have  entrusted  the 
manuscript  to  the  care  of  young  Daniel  Skinner,  a 
Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  1674, 
nephew  of  his  friend,  Cyriac  Skinner,  with  a  view  to 
its  publication.  Troubles  caused  by  the  appearance 
of  Milton's  "  State  Letters "  led  to  the  suppression  of 
the  daring  Treatise  on  Theology ;  the  manuscript  was 
forwarded  by  the  publisher,  Elzevir,  to  the  English 
Secretary  of  State,  and  it  waited  for  nearly  a  century 
and  a  half  before  it  found  an  editor  in  the  chaplain 
of  King  George  IV.,  Sumner,  afterwards  a  successor  of 
Bishop  Andrewes  in  the  See  of  Winchester. 

The  general  idea  around  which  Milton  grouped  the 
cycle  of  his  prose  writings  is  that  of  liberty  ;  in  his 
earliest  series  of  pamphlets  he  pleaded  for  ecclesiastical 
liberty  ;  in  others  he  presented  his  ideal  of  domestic 
liberty ;  and  in  yet  others  he  vindicated  the  civil 
liberties  of  his  country.  The  treatise  on  Christian 
Doctrine — including  both  faith  and  morals — exhibits 
in  an  example  the  importance  of  theological  liberty — 
"  the  liberty,"  as  Milton  declares,  ''  not  only  of  winnow- 
ing and  sifting  every  doctrine,  but  also  of  thinking  and 
even  of  writing  respecting  it,  according  to  our  individual 
faith  and  persuasion."  It  is  the  attempt  of  one  man, 
and  that  man  the  most  cultivated  of  his  time,  to  deter- 
mine for  himself,  and,  as  far  as  may  be  for  others,  the 
truth  concerning  religion  as  it  is  found  in  Scripture. 
Of  all  its  author's  prose  works  it  is  the  most  ambitious ; 
it  is  also  the  most  modest.      He  will  construct  a  com- 


Theological  L  ibe rty — Poems  1 7  5 

plete  theology  ;  but  no  article  of  that  theology  shall  be 
of  human  invention.  The  Holy  Scriptures  are  accepted 
without  discussion  as  the  rule  of  faith  and  as  the  law  of 
conduct ;  by  human  reason,  with  the  enlightenment  of 
the  Divine  Spirit,  the  Scriptures  are  to  be  interpreted. 
Milton's  audacity  is  founded  in  obedience  ;  he  aspires 
because  he  submits.  Propositions  deduced  from  the 
Bible  are  supported  by  an  array  of  texts.  Much  of  the 
book — to  be  frank — is  unreadable  ;  but  many  of  its 
conclusions  are  of  interest,  as  throwing  light  upon  the 
body  of  dogma  which  lies  behind  the  imaginative  work 
of  his  elder  years  ;  "  Paradise  Lost "  is  built  upon  a 
creed ;  in  the  Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine  we  can 
study  the  lines  of  its  foundation. 

Milton's  intellect  supports  his  imagination.  He 
would  build  no  cloud-palaces  of  a  fancy  in  nuhihus. 
His  art  was  not  like  Bunyau's,  the  outcome,  almost 
involuntary,  of  a  personal  experience.  He  never  knew 
Bunyan's  agonies  of  hope  and  fear ;  he  saw  hell,  but 
he  did  not  feel  its  terrors ;  he  explored  heaven,  but 
he  was  not  smitten  senseless  by  its  radiancy  of  joy. 
From  his  earliest  years  Milton  toiled  steadily,  as  under 
a  great  task-master's  eye ;  his  higher  life  w^as  not  like 
Bunyan's,  the  outcome  of  a  conversion  ;  it  was  rather  a 
going-on  towards  perfection.  He  worked  as  an  artist, 
consciously  and  deliberately,  not  without  a  deep  inspira- 
tion, but  with  all  the  powers  of  intelligence  and  will, 
hammering  on  the  anvil  his  material — doctrine,  emotion, 
and  image — until  they  were  (as  he  conceived)  insepar- 
ably welded  together.  It  may  be  confidently  said  that 
every  idea  of  importance  which  lies  within   or  behind 


iy6  Milton:  Ecclesiastical  and 

Milton's  poetry  was  held  by  him  cot  merely  as  service- 
able for  his  art,  but  as  warranted  by  his  reason  on 
scriptural  authority.  His  fancy  might  body  forth  de- 
tails, as  where  modern  artillery  is  employed  in  the 
angelic  warfare ;  but  every  cardinal  thought  of  his 
poems  was  an  article  of  belief.  He  regarded  the  poetic 
function  as  that  of  a  prophet ;  he  could  not  toy  or  trifle 
with  the  sacred  truth  ;  he  must  deliver  it  as  he  found 
it,  or  as  it  was  revealed  to  him.  His  theological  convic- 
tions were,  accordingly,  formative  influences  with  his 
poetry.  These,  in  the  "  Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine," 
are  nakedly  stated,  with  their  appended  proofs  from 
Scripture.  In  "  Paradise  Lost "  and  "  Paradise  Regained  " 
they  are  clothed  with  a  body  of  the  imagination. 

We  shall  understand  Milton  aright  only  when  we 
follow  the  track  of  his  mind  from  ideas  to  imagery. 
"  How  strange  an  inconsistency,"  wrote  Sir  John  Seeley, 
"  lies  in  the  construction  of  '  Paradise  Lost.'  A  Puritan 
has  rebelled  against  sensuous  worship.  He  has  risen 
in  indignation  against  a  scheme  of  religion  which  was 
too  material,  too  sensuous,  which  degraded  invisible 
and  awful  realities  by  too  near  an  association  with 
what  was  visible  and  familiar.  But  in  the  meanwhile 
a  poet,  who  is  the  same  person,  having  a  mind  in- 
veterately  plastic  and  creative,  is  quite  unable  to  think, 
even  on  religious  subjects,  without  forms  distinctly 
conceived.  And,  therefore,  while  with  one  hand  he 
throws  down  forms,  with  the  other  he  raises  them 
up.  The  iconoclast  is  at  the  same  time  an  idolater. 
For  one  of  the  most  striking  features  of  '  Paradise  Lost ' 
is   the   daring    materialism    that   runs   through    it,   the 


Theological  L  iberty — Poe77is  177 

boldness  with  which  the  Divine  Persons  are  intro- 
duced, the  distinctness  with  which  theological  doc- 
trines are  pragmatised."  And  the  critic  goes  on  to 
affirm  that  Milton,  the  Puritan,  is  as  mythological  as 
Dante,  the  Catholic,  but  that  the  mythology  of  Dante 
is  Christian,  and  sprang  up  naturally,  whereas  the 
mythology  of  Milton  is  Greek. 

Now  the  answer  to  such  criticism  as  this — the 
answer,  at  all  events,  which  Milton  would  have  given 
— is  supplied  by  the  Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine. 
He  was  an  iconoclast  of  those  sensuous  forms  which 
were  the  growth  of  human  tradition.  He  reverenced 
those  forms  which  were  authorised  by  God  Himself. 
His  mythology,  if  we  must  use  that  word,  was  not 
Greek,  but  exclusively  and  strictly  scriptural ;  or,  rather, 
it  was  no  mythology,  but  the  divinely  approved  way  of 
representing  God  to  ourselves,  with  faculties  which  are 
incapable  of  comprehending  Him  as  He  essentially  is. 
In  His  revelation  God  has  condescended  to  our  capacities; 
to  accept  His  representation  of  Himself  is  safe ;  to  take 
flights  of  our  own  above  the  reach  of  human  under- 
standing is  dangerous  mysticism ;  to  conceive  God  in 
other  than  the  authorised  forms  is  idolatry.  When 
the  Scripture  says  "it  repented  God,"  let  us  believe 
that  He  indeed  repented ;  when  the  Scripture  says 
that  God  was  grieved,  let  us  believe  that  He  was  in 
truth  grieved.  If  God  habitually  assigns  to  Himself 
the  members  and  form  of  a  man,  why,  asks  Milton, 
should  we  be  afraid  of  attributing  to  Him  what  He 
attributes  to  Himself?  God  may  not  actually  be  in 
form  like  a  man  ;  but,  in  as  far  as  He  can  be  known 

M 


178  Milton:  Ecclesiastical  and 

to  us,  that  is  the  truest  way  of  conceiving  Him,  for  it 
is  the  way  prescribed  to  us  by  God  Himself. 

The  materialism  of  "  Paradise  Lost  "  has  surprised  and 
offended  many  of  its  readers.  How  could  the  Puritan 
Milton,  so  ardent  in  his  spirituality,  present  a  material 
heaven,  angels  who  fling  rocks  and  fire  off  heavy 
batteries  of  artillery,  angels  who  dine  and  digest,  a 
Messiah,  who,  seated  in  His  chariot,  bears  upon  His  side 
a  bow  and  quiver,  as  though  he  were  some  far-shooting 
Apollo  ?  Are  we  reading  a  Pagan  or  a  Christian  poem  ? 
Christian  and  scriptural,  Milton  would  reply.  If  to 
think  scorn  of  visible  things  was  a  Puritan  habit  of  mind, 
if  the  party  with  which  Milton  was  most  closely  con- 
nected strove  to  make  a  breach  and  division  between 
the  spiritual  and  the  material,  then  he  had  assuredly 
transcended  the  Puritan  modes  of  conception,  and  in 
so  doing  he  held  that  he  was  following  the  guidance, 
not  of  his  own  imagination,  not  of  classical  literature,  but 
of  the  Divine  Word.  Milton,  the  theologian,  and  Milton, 
the  poet,  were  in  entire  agreement.  He  looked  on  the 
earth,  indeed,  as  suffering  from  the  consequences  of 
the  fall  of  man  ;  but  he  was  the  reverse  of  a  Manichean ; 
he  honoured  the  material  universe  ;  he  did  not  suppose 
that  there  is  any  opposition  between  soul  and  body, 
or  between  God  and  His  effluence  in  sun  and  stars 
and  earth. 

God  the  Father  is  the  primary  and  efficient  cause 
of  all  things.  What,  then,  is  the  origin  of  matter  ? 
That  matter  should  have  existed  of  itself  from  all 
eternity  is  inconceivable.  Some  original  it  must  have 
had  ;   and  no  other  source  was  in  existence  from  whence 


Theological  L  iberty — Poems  1 7  9 

material  substance  could  have  proceeded  save  the  sub- 
stance of  the  Divine  Being.      Matter — so  Milton  held — 
was  not  created  out  of  nothing ;   it  was  an  efflux  from 
God's  own   nature ;    nor  was  matter  evil   or  worthless  ; 
it  was  essentially  good,  as  the  bodying  forth  of  Himself 
by  God   must  needs  be.      How,  it  may  be  asked,  can 
that  which  is  corruptible  proceed  from  the  incorruptible? 
With  a  touch  of  indignation,  Milton  answers  that  matter 
came  forth    incorruptible  from   God,  and,   even   though 
Adam  fell,  incorruptible  it  remains,  as  far  as  concerns 
its    essence.      ;The    sin    of  Adam   lay   in   his    will   and 
was  spiritual ;  matter  has  never  sinned  ;   at  the   utmost 
it   may   have   contracted   some    taint    or   contamination 
from  the  evil  spirits    who  during   so   many  ages   have 
possessed  the  earth  and  the  air.      As  a  corollary  of  the 
belief  that  God  drew  all  things  out  of  Himself,  Milton 
adds  that  no  created  substance  can  ever  be  annihilated, 
for  that  were  to  destroy  a  portion  of  God's  own  being. 
Matter  and  spirit  are  alike  indestructible. 

Surely  the  Puritan  Milton  must  regard  the  nature 
of  man  as  twofold — material  and  spiritual,  the  flesh 
warring  against  the  spirit  and  the  spirit  warring  against 
the  flesh  ?  This  warfare  is  indeed  real,  but  it  is 
a  spiritual  warfare,  a  warfare  within  the  himan  will. 
On  grounds  which  he  believed  to  be  in  harmony  with 
Scripture  Milton  rejected  the  bi-partite  conception  of 
man's  nature.  Man,  he  maintained,  is  a  living  being 
intrinsically  ''  one  and  individual,  not  compounded  and 
separable,  not,  according  to  the  common  opinion,  made 
up  and  framed  of  two  distinct  and  different  natures, 
as  of  soul  and  body."     The  whole  man  is  soul,  and  the 


1 8o  Milton :  Ecclesiastical  and 

soul  man,  "  that  is  to  say,  a  body  or  substance  individual, 
animated,  sensitive,    and    rational."     ^Body   and    spirit, 
according  to  Milton,  are  not  two  separate  things ;    they 
are  different  aspects  of  one  and  the  same  thing  ;   "  That 
the  spirit  of   man  should   be  separate  from  the  body, 
so   as   to   have   a  perfect  and    intelligent  existence  in- 
dependently   of    it,    is     nowhere     said     in    Scripture," 
and   the    doctrine   is    evidently  at  variance   both   with 
nature  and  reason.      Into  the  organic  clay  God  at  first 
breathed  some  vital  and   rational  virtue,   and   the  clay 
became  a  living  soul,  or,  as  perhaps  we  should  rather 
render   the   words,   a  living   animal ;    there  is  nothing 
spiritual  in  a  human  creature  which  is  not  also  material, 
and     nothing    material    which    is    not    also     spiritual. 
Milton  does    not   imagine  that  at   some   unascertained 
moment  of  an  unborn  infant's  existence  God  creates  a 
soul,  and,  as  it  were,  inserts  it  in  the  body ;    he  held, 
on  the  contrary,  that  the  complete  human  being  is  the 
natural    offispring    of    its    parents.      Refusing    to    sever 
our  manhood    into  two  parts,  a  superior  part   and   an 
inferior,    the   Puritan  poet  never  casts   contempt   upon 
the    body.  V^  He    honours    the    entire    spiritual    animal 
Adam,  and  the  entire  spiritual  animal  Eve  ;  he  regards 
every  natural  appetite  and  passion,  the  craving  for  food, 
the  joys  of  wedlock,  as  sacred  : 

AVliatever  hypocrites  austerely  talk 
Of  purity,  and  place,  and  innocence, 
Defaming  as  impure  what  God  declares 
Pure. 

Only  when  these  appetites  and  passions  transgress  the 
Divine  rule  and  order  does  sin  come  into  existence. 


Theological  L  iberty — Poems  1 8 1 

Even  the  angels  of  God  are  material  creatures,  though 
of  finer  substance  than  man.  They  are  not  pure  spirit, 
the  existence  of  which  Milton  cannot  conceive,  and  does 
not  feel  authorised  to  attempt  conceiving,  since  such  an 
attempt  seems  forbidden  by  God's  revelation.  Like 
human  beings,  the  angels  possess  five  senses  ;  they  re- 
quire food  ;  they  feel  hunger ;  they  digest  and  assimilate, 
turning  corporeal  to  incorporeal,  that  is  to  say,  turning 
the  gross  matter  of  food  to  a  finer  and  more  tenuous 
consistence  ;  they  sleep,  for  heaven  has  alternations  of 
evening  and  of  morning.  Whatever  pure  delight  of  love 
man  and  woman  know,  that  in  nobler  ways  the  angels 
eminently  enjoy.  If  in  Milton's  account  of  the  warfare 
with  the  rebel  angels  there  is  a  certain  condescension 
to  the  powers  of  human  imagination,  and  things  of  heaven 
are  shadowed  forth  by  things  of  earth,  in  this  he  follows 
the  Divine  method,  which  is  the  best  and  truest  method, 
of  instructing  our  faculties  to  apprehend  what  in  its  own 
nature  is  beyond  the  scope  of  those  faculties. 

Man  being  one,  indivisible,  spiritual  animal,  what  is 
the  meaniug  of  that  punishment  pronounced  against 
Adam  and  his  descendants  for  the  sin  of  disobedience? 
What  is  death?  The  common  notion  that  it  signifies 
the  separation  of  soul  and  body  is  of  course  inadmissible. 
If  man  dies,  he  dies  not  in  part,  but  altogether  ;  the 
whole  man  ceases  from  activity  and  conscious  existence. 
But  no  created  thing — the  efflux  of  Deity — is  destruc- 
tible ;  man  dies  to  be  restored  as  a  complete  being, 
spiritually  material,  on  the  morning  of  resurrection.  But 
death  in  a  true  sense  entered  into  the  world  before  Abel 
fell  under  the  stroke  of  Cain  ;  the  guilt  of  Adam  was 


1 82  Milton:  Ecclesiastical  and 

a  mortal  blow  directed  against  his  own  moral  nature  ; 
the  obscuration  of  his  reason  by  the  mists  of  sin  was 
intellectual  death  ;  that  which  we  commonly  name  death 
is  only  the  third  stage  in  a  sequence  of  dreadful  con- 
sequences, moral,  intellectual,  and  physical. 

If  we  may  speak  of  a  central  point  in  the  nature  of 
man,  we  may  call  his  will  that  central  point.  In  the 
''  Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine "  as  strongly  as  in 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  Milton  insists  on  the  freedom  of  the 
human  will.  It  was  a  faith  difficult  to  reconcile  with 
the  Calvinistic  dogma  of  the  Divine  decrees.  But  Milton 
was  not  a  Calvinist.  By  a  long  array  of  passages  from 
Scripture  he  shows  that  nothing  which  God  has  left  in 
the  power  of  free  agents  is  the  subject  of  an  absolute 
decree.  Such  decrees  are  contingent ;  and  thus  man's 
liberty  is  in  no  sense  controlled  by  God  ;  or,  as  the 
Father  Himself  declares  it,  in  one  of  His  scholastic  dis- 
sertations to  the  inhabitants  of  heaven  : 

Without  least  impulse  or  shadow  of  fate, 

Or  aught  by  Me  immutably  foreseen, 

They  trespass,  authors  to  themselves  in  all 

Both  what  they  judge  and  what  they  choose  ;  for  so 

I  formed  them  free  ;  and  free  they  must  remain 

Till  they  enthrall  themselves  ;  I  else  must  change 

Their  nature,  and  revoke  the  high  decree, 

Unchangeable,  eternal,  which  ordained 

Their  freedom  ;  they  themselves  ordained  their  fall. 

"  God,"  says  Milton  in  his  prose,  "  has  Himself  decreed 
that  some  things  should  be  left  to  our  free-will." 

The  publication  of  the  "Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine'* 
in  the  third  decade  of  this  century  gave  somewhat  of  a 
blow  to  Milton's  popularity  with  many  excellent  people, 


Theological  L  iberty — Poems  183 

who  then  for  the  first  time  discovered  that  the  greatest 
religious  poet  of  England  was  far  from  theological  ortho- 
doxy. "  Paradise  Lost "  could  no  longer  be  considered 
a  safe  soporific  for  Sunday  afternoons.  Not  only  did 
the  Puritan  Milton  declare  that  the  entire  decalogue  was 
abrogated  by  a  law  of  love,  not  only  did  he  come  forward 
as  a  pronounced  anti-Sabbatarian,  not  only  did  he  degrade 
marriage  to  a  civil  contract,  advocate  divorce  ^or  other -^ 
causes  than  adultery,  justify  polygamy  as  lawful  for  '^ 
Christians,  but  he  deliberately  rejected  the  orthodox  ' 
doctrine  of  the  Trinity.  In  "  Paradise  Lost  "  the  unique 
position  of  dignity  assigned  by  the  Almighty  to  the  Son 
arouses  the  jealousy  of  the  revolting  angels ;  it  is  not 
God  who,  in  the  second  person  of  the  Blessed  Trinity,  is 
made  to  rule  over  them  ;  supreme  honours  have  been 
granted  to  one  who,  like  themselves,  is  less  than  Deity. 
In  his  digest  of  Christian  doctrine  Milton  expresses 
himself  without  the  slightest  ambiguity  ;  the  Son  is  not 
coeval  or  equal  with  the  Father  ;  He  is  not  of  the  same 
numerical  essence  ;  it  was  in  God's  power  to  have  dwelt 
alone  without  bringing  the  Son  into  existence ;  by  the 
Father's  will  was  the  Son  begotten ;  by  His  will  did 
the  Son  receive  a  portion  of  the  Divine  nature.  The 
essential  attributes  of  Deity — omniscience,  omnipotence, 
supreme  goodness,  supreme  glory — belong  to  the  Father 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  Son.  The  Holy  Spirit  is  evi- 
dently— so  Milton  declares — far  inferior  to  the  Father 
and  to  the  only-begotten  Son  of  God  ;  He  is  a  minister 
and  creature  of  the  Almighty,  produced  probably  before 
the  foundations  of  the  world  were  laid,  but  certainly  not 
until  after  the  Son  had  come  into  existence. 


1 84  Milton  :  Ecclesiastical  and 

Thus  with  a  patient  and  serene  audacity  Milton 
compiles  his  theology  from  the  words  of  Scripture.  In 
estimating  the  intellectual  effort  which  went  to  the 
creation  of  his  epic  poems,  we  must  bear  in  mind  that 
Milton  does  not  merely  handle  imaginatively  an  accepted 
body  of  thought  on  religious  questions  ;  on  the  contrary, 
as  a  dar-Dg  thinker  he  constructed  on  a  scriptural  basis, 
or  what  seemed  to  him  to  be  such,  his  own  theology. 
In  Scripture  he  found  authority  for  his  method  of  treat- 
ment :  ■  he  imaginative  medium  by  which  he  shadowed 
forth  the  abstractions  of  his  creed  was  provided  for  him 
by  the  Old  and  the  New  Testaments.  The  creation  of 
these  poems  was  a  far  bolder  and  vaster  undertaking 
than  is  commonly  supposed.  A  theology  and  a  philo- 
sophy of  his  own,  akin  in  some  respects  to  the  Puritanism 
of  his  time,  yet  independent,  and  identical  with  no 
current  doctrine,  a  theology  and  a  philosophy  original 
and  extraordinary  form  the  foundation  of  his  amazing 
poetic  structures.  Few  feats  of  the  human  mind  have 
equalled  that  of  collecting  a  complete  faith  and  of 
transporting  such   a  faith   into  art. 

Ill 

When  Milton  in  his  prose  writings  considered  man  in 
relation  to  his  fellows,  his  central  thought  was  that  of 
freedom  tending  to  a  higher  obedience;  he  w^ould  cast 
away  injurious  human  bonds  that  he  might  enter  into 
the  liberty  of  a  stricter  service  under  the  divine  order. 
When  he  wrote  as  a  poet  he  stood  in  the  immediate 
presence  of  God,  and  his  central  thought  was  that  of 
obedience  as  the  condition  of  true  freedom.      Let  man 


Theological  L  iberty — Poems  185 

falter  for  a  moment  from  loyalty  to  his  supreme  Ruler, 
and  he  passes  into  the  servitude  of  sin.  The  Lady  of 
his  Masque  is  set  in  the  enchanted  chair  ;  at  the  waving 
of  a  wand  her  nerves  can  be  chained  up  in  alabaster. 
But  what  of  that  ?  While  she  maintains  the  inward 
law  of  chastity,  she  is  freer  than  the  air: 

Fool,  do  not  boast. 
Thou  canst  not  touch  the  freedom  of  my  mind 
With  all  thy  charms,  although  this  corporal  rind 
Thou  hast  immanacled  while  Heaven  sees  good. 

It  is  the  ugly-headed  rabble,  rolling  with  pleasure  in 
a  sensual  sty,  who  are  slaves.  The  Spirit  who  acts  as 
the  envoy  and  representative  of  Providence  is  but  an 
attendant  Spirit ;  yet  on  his  happy  missions  he  can  run 
to  the  green  earth's  end  or  soar  to  the  corners  of  the 
moon.  In  his  farewell  words  he  expounds  the  meaning 
of  this  trial  of  the  brothers'  and  sister's  patience,  faith 
and  truth  : 

Mortals  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue  ;  she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime. 

With  all  the  opulence  of  Nature  spread  abroad,  it 
must  be  refused  or  wisely  used,  for  loyalty  alone  is 
highest  liberty.  The  test  of  virtue  is  not  merely 
negative  ;  the  commandment  of  prohibition  ''  Thou  shall 
not"  is  accompanied  by  a  higher  commandment  of 
rapturous  freedom — "  Thou  shalt."  The  doctrine  of 
virginity  is  no  fragment  of  frigid  ethics ;  chastity  is 
dear  and  beautiful  and  saintly  ;  a  thousand  angels  wait 
upon  it ;  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision  are  open  to  it 


1 86  Milton:  Ecclesiastical  and 

alone ;  it  illuminates  with  a  sacred  ray  the  outward 
shape  of  loveliness  ;  it  turns  by  some  divine  process  the 
very  temple  of  the  mind  to  the  soul's  essence,  "  till  all  be 
made  immortal."  To  exchange  such  light  and  freedom 
for  liquorish  baits,  fit  to  ensnare  a  brute,  were  treason, 
inevitably  followed  by  the  degradation  of  serfdom. 

In  "  Paradise  Lost "  earth  and  hell  and  heaven  are 
conjoined  in  most  solemn  interest  about  what  great 
affair  ?  The  eating  of  an  apple.  But  that  crude  apple 
which  diverted  Eve  serves  as  a  sufficient  test  of  the 
supreme  duty  of  obedience.  All  the  joys  of  Paradise 
were  on  one  side,  the  blessedness  of  labour  and  the 
blessedness  of  rest,  lordship  over  the  docile  and  innocent 
tribes,  the  fountain  of  pure  love,  communion  with  God 
and  angel  guests,  the  freedom  of  glad  allegiance  to  the 
divine  law-giver  ;  on  the  other  side  were  ''foul  distrust" 
and  "  breach  disloyal,"  revolt  and  disobedience,  with 
servitude  to  an  evil  master.  To  Milton's  imagination 
the  contest  around  the  apple  seemed  a  more  heroic 
argument  for  song  than  any  warfare  of  fabled  knights 
.on  behalf  of  honour  or  of  love.  The  most  eventful 
act  in  the  world's  history  is  an  inward  decision  of  the 
will.  All  tyrannies,  civil  and  ecclesiastical,  against 
which  Milton  fought  lay  involved  in  that  first  disloyalty 
to  true  authority.  Adam  beholds  in  vision  one  of  his 
sons,  a  mighty  hunter  of  men,  who  arrogates  dominion 
over  his  brethren,  and  Adam  execrates  his  own  off- 
spring ;  but  such  external  domination  of  brute  force 
is  only  the  natural  development  of  his  own  disloyal 
deed.  The  angel  Michael  interprets  the  significance  of 
the  vision : 


The  0  logic  a  I L  iberty — Poems  187 

Since  tliy  original  lapse,  true  liberty 

Is  lost,  whicli  always  with  right  reason  dwells 

Twinned,  and  from  her  hath  no  dividual  being. 

.  .  .  Tyranny  must  be, 
Though  to  the  tyrant  thereby  no  excuse. 
Yet  sometimes  nations  wall  decline  so  low 
From  virtue,  which  is  reason,  that  no  wrong, 
But  justice,  and  some  fatal  curse  annexed, 
Deprives  them  of  their  outward  liberty. 
Their  inward  lost. 

The  spectacle  of  the  Church  oppressed  by  spiritual 
despots,  employing  secular  power,  follows,  to  be  com- 
mented upon  in  like  manner  by  that  Independent 
Ironside   of  the   angelic   host  : 

What  will  they  then 
But  force  the  Spirit  of  Grace  itself,  and  bind 
His  consort.  Liberty  ?  what  but  unbuild 
His  living  temples,  built  by  faith  to  stand — 
Their  own  faith,  not  another's  ?  for  on  Earth 
Who  against  faith  and  conscience  can  be  heard 
Infallible  I    Yet  many  will  presume. 

And  Adam,  having  seen  the  evils  that  were  coming 
upon  his  successors  and  had  his  fill  of  knowledge,  is 
ready  to  descend  from  the  speculative  mount,  taking  to 
heart  the  lesson  :  "  Henceforth  I  learn  that  to  obey  is 
best."  The  highest  heroism  possible  to  man,  he  per- 
ceives, is  loyalty  in  meekness  of  spirit : 

Suffering  for  Truth's  sake 
Is  fortitude  to  highest  victory. 

To  know  this  is  to  possess  one's  soul  ''  in  peace  of 
thought  "  ;  to  have  learnt  this  much  is  ''  the  sum  of 
wisdom." 


1 88  Milton:  Ecclesiastical  and 

IV 

It  pleased  Milton  little  to  hear  ** Paradise  Lost" 
commended  to  the  disadvantage  of  his  later  and  briefer 
epic.  ''  Paradise  Regained  "  bears  to  "  Paradise  Lost  " 
somewhat  of  the  relation  which  a  lady-chapel  bears  to 
a  cathedral ;  it  is  less  vast,  but  not  less  sacred ;  it 
is  an  extension  of  the  whole,  yet  an  unity  in  itself; 
it  harmonises  with  the  general  design,  while  it  pos- 
sesses a  special  grace  and  dignity  of  its  own.  The 
lesson  which  Adam  had  been  taught  before  he  was 
dismissed  to  wander  abroad  on  earth  is  here  enforced  by 
a  great  example.  The  scene  is  not  the  happy  garden 
but  the  austere  landscape  of  the  desert.  An  ideal  man, 
beautiful  in  youth's  full  flower,  ardent  in  patriotism  and 
the  passion  of  humanity,  at  a  most  critical  moment,  when 
he  has  just  received  the  highest  assurance  of  his  public 
mission,  is  to  be  exposed  to  the  temptation  of  greatness, 
and  to  remain  victor  through  meekness,  patience,  forti- 
tude, and  entire  obedience.  He,  like  Adam,  is  the 
representative  of  our  race  ;  his  victory  is  ours,  and  as 
by  disobedience  Paradise  was  lost,  so  ''  by  one  man's 
firm  obedience  fully  tried,"  Paradise  is  to  be  regained. 

The  moment  was  one  of  peculiar  danger.  Assured 
of  his  high  destiny,  the  young  leader  of  men  might  be 
eager  to  start  on  his  career,  to  take  his  own  way,  to 
choose  his  own  time.  Satan,  no  longer  the  proud  arch- 
angel, majestic  though  ruined,  but  a  crafty  counsellor 
with  the  experience  of  half  a  myriad  of  years,  a  Satan- 
Machiavel,  a  grey  dissimulation,  knows  that  his  last 
chance  has  come,  and  he  will  put  forth  all  his  wiles.     In 


Theological  L  iberty — Poems  189 

deep  agitation  of  mind,  which  begets  a  swarm  of  thoughts, 
the  divine  man  is  led  into  the  wilderness.  From  child- 
hood his  aspiration  has  been  for  the  public  good  ;  he  had 
boldly  appeared  as  a  boy  among  the  doctors  of  the  Temple ; 
as  a  youth  he  had  aspired  to  patriotic  achievements : 

Victorious  deeds 
Flamed  in  my  heart,  heroic  acts — one  while 
To  rescue  Israel  from  the  Roman  yoke  ; 
Then  to  subdue  and  quell  o'er  all  the  earth 
Brute  violence  and  proud  tyrannic  power, 
Till  truth  were  freed,  and  equity  restored, 

Satan's  best  hopes  are  founded  on  the  liability  of  a 
heroic  leader,  bent  upon  disinterested  ends,  to  overlook 
the  legitimacy  of  the  means  by  which  such  ends  may 
be  attained,  and  on  the  impatience  of  that  zeal  which 
would  hasten  to  the  tasks  of  love. 

After  the  salutation  of  combatants  in  the  great  duel, 
the  first  thrust,  aimed  at  the  common  humanity  of  Christ, 
which  knows  the  need  of  bread,  and  at  his  fears  that  he 
may  perish  in  the  wilderness  with  all  his  tasks  unaccom- 
plished, is  instantly  met  and  foiled.  Few  passages  in 
either  epic  have  more  of  the  Miltonic  grandeur  than  that 
in  which  the  "aged  man  in  rural  weeds,"  detected  and 
repulsed,  declares  himself  with  a  majestic  melancholy  : 

'Tis  true,  I  am  that  Spirit  unfortunate, 
and   like   some  dark  bird  of  prey  wheels  in  mournful 
flight   above   the   thought   of  his  eternal  loss,   only  to 
recover  his  poise  and  watch  his  opportunity  : 

Though  I  have  lost 
Much  lustre  of  my  native  brightness,  lost 
To  be  beloved  of  God,  I  have  not  lost 
To  love,  at  least  contemplate  and  admire, 
What  I  see  excellent  in  good,  or  fair, 
Or  virtuous  :  I  should  so  have  lost  all  sense. 


1 90  Milton  :  Ecclesiastical  and 

The  old  peasant  has  been  suddenly  transformed  into  the 
most  dignified  of  sophists. 

A  pause  and  resting-place  is  afforded  by  the  interlude 
of  Andrew  and  Simon  on  the  bank  of  Jordan  in  con- 
verse concerning  the  lost  Messiah  and  that  of  Mary 
pondering  motherly  cares  and  fears  in  her  heart.  Then 
the  duel  is  renewed.  Charles  Lamb  was  of  opinion 
that  the  banquet  spread  by  Satan's  command  in  a 
scene,  though  in  the  wilderness,  of  visionary  beauty,  was 
wanting  in  poetic  decorum — a  temptation  for  a  Helioga- 
balus  rather  than  for  the  meek  Saviour.  But  Milton's 
Saviour  is  a  man,  and  a  man  whose  brain  has  been  dis- 
turbed by  long  abstinence  from  food.  He  had  rejected 
food  as  a  necessity ;  now  he  is  an-hungered,  perhaps 
light-headed,  and  food  may  be  accepted  as  a  delight. 
The  art  of  gastronomy  is  conceived  by  Milton  as  a 
species  of  poetry  ;  stripling  youths  and  fairest  nymphs 
are  the  attendants ;  harmonious  airs  are  heard  from 
pipe  and  string ;  the  scent  of  vernal  blossoms  floats  on 
the  breeze ;  it  is  not  a  civic  feast,  nor  the  luxury  of 
a  gaudy  day  at  Cambridge,  but  an  enchantment  of  the 
senses  and  the  imagination.  And  Satan,  though  he 
will  make  his  experiment,  accepts  his  failure  without 
surprise.  It  is  at  least  an  exhibition  of  his  power — 
power  which  if  worthless  to  gratify  the  appetite  may 
be  serviceable  in  other  ways  to  one  whose  heart  is  set 
on  high  designs. 

But  the  seduction  of  riches  as  a  means  to  beneficent 
ends  is  met  by  a  like  tranquil  yet  unsubdueable  resist- 
ance. True  kingship  begins  by  self-  mastery,  and 
more   kingly  than  temporal    power  is  the   influence   of 


Theolog  ical  L  iberty — Poems  1 9 1 

truth  which  governs  the  inner  man,  the  nobler  part. 
True  glory  lies  not  in  popular  applause,  but  in  God's 
approbation  won  by  patience,  temperance,  genuine  wis- 
dom, deeds  of  peace.  Climbing  from  the  senses  to  the 
higher  passions,  and  thence  to  the  last  infirmity  of  noble 
mind,  Satan,  inly  racked  yet  maintaining  a  mastery 
under  his  successive  defeats,  appeals  to  Christ's  sense 
of  duty  and  his  religious  zeal.  If  he  will  not  choose 
his  own  means  of  enterprise,  has  he  a  right  to  linger 
on  his  beneficent  way  ?  He  is  a  heroic  youth,  unversed 
in  the  world's  affairs.  Should  he  not  understand  the 
situation,  and  learn,  even  from  an  old  Satan-Machiavel, 
how  a  Jewish  alliance  against  Rome  may  be  cemented 
with  the  Parthian  ?  But  regal  mysteries  and  politic 
maxims  are  a  cumbrous  learning  little  needed  by  the 
prophetic  Son  of  God  ;  he  who  best  can  suffer  best  can 
reign  ;  all  things  are  to  be  fulfilled  in  their  due  time. 

The  wisdom  of  Greece  moves  the  spirit  of  Jesus  no 
more  than  does  the  imperial  power  of  Rome.  Under 
the  Roman  magnificence  he  detects  servility  of  soul : 

What  wise  and  valiant  man  would  seek  to  free 
These,  thus  degenerate,  by  themselves  enslaved, 
Or  could  of  inward  slaves  make  outward  free  ? 

The  alleged  kingship  over  self  of  the  Greek  stoical 
philosophy  he  regards  as  a  vain  boast.  The  fear  of  the 
Lord,  taught  by  the  Hebrew  prophets  and  singers,  that 
is  wisdom.  Milton,  says  Sir  John  Seeley,  draws  in  the 
person  of  Christ  "a  more  gifted  and  energetic  Marcus 
Aurelius."  Classical  virtue,  he  tells  us,  "  is  self- 
dependence,  love  of  country,  contempt  for  pleasure  in 
comparison    with    great    deeds,    love    of    fame " ;     the 


192  Milton:  Ecclesiastical  and 

Christian  ideal  is  founded  not  on  self-respect,  but  on 
self-sacrifice.  In  "  Paradise  Regained "  we  find  the 
Renaissance  through  Milton's  adoption  of  "  the  classical 
conception  of  virtue."  Surely  the  criticism  flies  wide 
of  the  mark.  Whatever  Milton  may  have  built  into 
his  structure  from  classical  sources,  the  foundation  is 
essentially  Hebraic.  The  classical  ideal  of  virtue  is 
presented  by  Satan  and  is  rejected  by  Jesus.  His 
might  is  derived  from  dependence  upon  God.  By 
"  humiliation  and  strong  sufferance  "  his  weakness  over- 
comes Satanic  strength.  His  victories  are  those  of 
entire  obedience.  But  his  obedience  is  filial.  Self- 
respect,  self-veneration  Milton  conceived  as  part  of  the 
Christian  ideal  of  virtue,  and  such  in  truth  it  is.  "  Ye 
are,"  wrote  St  Paul,  "  the  temple  of  the  living  God." 
True  worship,  as  Milton  understood  it,_  is  no  servile 
crouching,  but  the  happy  boldness  of  a  son,  rejoicing 
in  his  Father's  presence.  The  humility  of  Christ  is  the 
humility  that  soars  and  gladly  obeys. 

Satan's  devices  and  sophistries  are  all  but  exhausted. 
The  night  of  rage  and  tempest  passes  away ;  it  is  radiant 
morning  again,  and  the  Son  of  Man,  after  the  dismal 
hours,  is  no  worse  than  wet.  The  great  gambler's  last 
stake  alone  remains ;  his  despair  reduces  him  to  the 
effrontery  of  the  last  temptation.  Jesus  is  challenged 
to  substitute  a  demonstration  of  His  Divine  Sonship  for 
filial  faith  in  the  meaning  of  the  Father's  testimony ; 
and  no  elaborate  reasonings  are  needed  to  foil  the 
antagonist ;   a  single  word  suffices  : 

Also  it  is  written, 
"  Tempt  not  the  Lord  thy  God." 


Theological.  L  iberty — Poems  193 

And  at  the  word  the  event  is  ended — "  But  Satan 
smitten  with  amazement  fell." 

The  decorum  which  Lamb  found  wanting  in  the 
banquet  scene  is  at  least  fully  observed  in  the  close  of 
Milton's  poem.  Had  "  Paradise  Regained  "  ended  with 
the  vast  cowp  de  thMtre  of  Satan's  fall,  or  with  the 
oratorio  chorus  of  the  angelic  choir  we  should  have  felt 
that  the  humanity  of  Jesus  was  somewhat  obscured. 
A  classical  triumph  must  not  celebrate  this  great  series 
of  victories ;  no  chariots  and  horsemen  and  captive 
slaves  must  accompany  this  greatest  of  conquerors  to 
the  Capitol.  We  need  something  more  truly  human, 
more  truly  divine  : 

He,  unobserved 
Home  to  his  mother's  house  private  returned. 

Nothing  more :  other  tasks  await  the  Son  of  God, 
which  will  be  accomplished  with  the  quietude  and  the 
dignity  of  humiliation  and  strong  sufferance. 


Though  the  forms  of  Attic  tragedy  are  observed 
in  "Samson  Agonistes,"  its  inner  spirit,  like  that  of 
"  Paradise  Eegained,"  is  essentially  Hebraic.  The  central 
idea  is  still  that  of  obedience  and  loyalty  to  a  divine 
ruler  in  the  great  contention  between  good  and  evil ;  the 
human  actors  of  the  drama  stand  forth  from  a  background 
of  providentiaL-xiisposal.  No  poem  perhaps  leaves  a 
more  single  or  a  more  inexhaustible  impression — that 
of  commiseration  lost  in  victory,  that  of  victory  subdued 

N 


1 94  Milton :  Ecclesiastical  and 

by  the  solemnity  of  death,  that  of  divine  purpose 
controlling  both  life  and  death.  The  protagonist  is  in 
truth  not  Samson  but  Jehovah.  The  great  combatant, 
pre-eminent  in  strength  and  valour,  the  champion  of  his 
people,  chosen  of  God  for  a  high  purpose,  has  fallen. 
Through  no  merit  of  his  own  but  as  an  act  of  free  grace 
the  divine  gift  of  strength  had  been  conferred  upon 
him;  all  that  was  demanded  was  that  he  should  keep  a 
secret  entrusted  to  him  ;  in  that  test  he  had  failed. 
He  had  forgotten  his  loyalty  to  God  in  a  woman's  lap, 
when  nothing  was  required  save  the  passive  obedience 
of  silence.  As  the  consequence  of  that  dereliction  the 
Hebrew  patriot  and  hero  is  reduced  to  blind  servitude 
at  the  mill  in  Gaza,  oppressed  above  all  by  the  sense  of 
his  own  unfaithfulness  and  of  heaven's  desertion,  a  man 
who  is  not  "in  the  list  of  them  that  hope."  Old  Manoa 
with  his  uninspired  reason  and  good-will,  hoping  to 
obtain  his  son's  ransom  and  vainly  dreaming  that  his 
eyesight  may  be  restored,  can  bring  him  no  true  help. 
Dalila,  a  mist  of  frauds,  Harapha,  a  storm  of  brute  force, 
serve  him  only  by  rousing  his  spirit  from  supine  despair 
to  indignant  passion. 

Yet  help  there  is  for  Samson,  but  his  help  can  be 
from  God  alone.  He  has  failed  in  the  test  of  passive 
obedience;  there  is  also  obedience  of  an  active  kind: 
will  he  fail  in  this?  Pleasure  he  was  unable  to  resist; 
will  he  be  able  to  confront  pain  and  death?  A  second 
test  of  obedience  is  proposed  to  determine  the  issue  of 
his  life.  When  he  is  summoned  to  appear  before  the 
Philistine  lords  at  their  profane  festival,  Samson  at  first 
refuses — "I    will    not    come."      But    presently    sudden 


Theolog ical  L  iberty — Poe^ns  195 

promptings  stir  within  his  mind,  and  he  is  aware  that 
these  promptings  are  from  God: 

I  begin  to  feel 
Some  rousing  motions  in  me,  which  dispose 
To  something  extraordinary  my  thoughts. 
I  with  this  messenger  will  go  along — 
Nothing  to  do,  be  sure,  that  may  dishonour 
Our  Law,  or  stain  my  vow  of  Nazarite. 
If  there  be  aught  of  presage  in  the  mind. 
This  day  will  be  remarkable  in  my  life 
By  some  great  act,  or  of  my  days  the  last. 

In  this  final  test  Samson  will  not  fail;  even  to  his 
own  destruction  he  follows  out  the  divine  promptings. 
And  therefore  after  the  hideous  noise,  the  shoutinsf,  the 
universal  groan,  destruction  and  ruin  at  the  utmost 
point,  there  follows  deep  peace  of  mind,  a  peace  as  pure 
as  it  is  profound.  Samson  lies  a  ruin  of  manhood,  but 
at  the  last  the  will  of  God  has  been  loyally  fulfilled, 
and  through  obedience  he  has  obtained  God's  enfran- 
chisement of  death : 

Nothing  is  here  for  tears,  nothing  to  wail 
Or  knock  the  breast ;  no  weakness,  no  contempt, 
Dispraise  or  blame ;  nothing  but  well  and  fair. 
And  what  may  quiet  us  in  a  death  so  noble. 

Not  through  Manoa's  prudent  diplomacy  but  through 
one  act  of  heroic  obedience,  the  blind  and  dejected 
captive  has  passed  from  servitude  to  freedom. 

Critics  have  lamented  that  Milton  did  not  embody 
his  political  experience  in  epic  or  in  drama;  ''the  epic 
of  liberty,  virtue,  and  religion,  which  he  had  it  in  him 
to  write,  remained  unwritten."  It  seems  at  first  sight 
as  if  his  prose  writings,  devoted  to  the  cause  of  freedom, 
and  his  poems   were  separated  by  a  gulf  that  is  wide 


196  Milton:  Ecclesiastical  and  Theological  Liberty 

and  deep.  But  is  this  really  the  case?  Or  were  not 
the  prose  pamphlets  an  attempt  to  give  an  application  in 
detail  to  the  one  great  principle  which  inspires  masque 
and  epic  and  drama?  When  Milton  was  a  poet  he 
could  soar  with  no  middle  flight;  he  could  occupy 
himself  with  none  of  the  secondary  truths  which  regulate 
conduct  private  or  public.  One  primary  truth  filled  all 
his  mind — acceptance  of  the  divine  rule,  submission  to 
the  divine  mandate;  heroic  patience  in  accepting  the 
will  of  God,  heroic  energy  in  making  the  will  of  God 
prevail;  entire  obedience,  and,  through  obedience, 
freedom. 


VII 

AN  ANGLICAN  AND  A  PURITAN   EIRENICON 
JEREMY   TAYLOR:    BAXTER 


A  FUNERAL  panegyric  is  not  and  cannot  be  a  complete 

criticism ;    but   true   sorrow    may   be    keen-sighted    for 

the    characteristic    virtue    of    a    mind    and    life.       No 

better   word,    when   allowance  has  been  made   for   the 

occasion,  has  been  spoken  of  Jeremy  Taylor  than  that 

found   in   the    sermon   preached   a  few   days   after  his 

death  by  his  friend  and   follower   Dean   Rust,   himself 

a  writer  of  some  distinction,  whose  affinities  were  with 

the  school  of  the   Cambridge  Platonists.       Taylor  was 

not   a  great   or   original   thinker ;    he   was   not   always 

as   wise   as   he    was   learned ;    the    spirit   of    authority 

sometimes  overbore  with  him  the  spirit  of  conciliation. 

"  He   was  not  unseen,"    says    Rust,    ''  in   the  subtleties 

and  spinosities  of  the  schools,  and  upon  occasion  could 

make  them  serve  his  purpose."      It  was  not   always  an 

advantage    to    Taylor    that    he    delayed    among    these 

subtleties  and  spinosities,  and  the  panegyrist  adds  with 

a  half  apologetic  touch  :    "  Yet,  I  believe,  he  thought 

many  of  them  very  near  akin  to  the  famous  knight  of 

La  Mancha,  and  would  make  sport  sometimes  with  the 

romantic  sophistry,  and  fantastic  adventures  of  school- 

197 


198     An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

errantry."  We  may  remain  unconvinced  when  Rust 
ascribes  to  his  friend  "  the  profoundness  of  a  philo- 
sopher, the  sagacity  of  a  prophet,  the  reason  of  an 
angel."  But  when  he  speaks  of  the  natural  ardour  of 
Taylor's  temperament,  the  opulence  of  his  endowment, 
the  harmonious  richness  of  his  genius,  and  when  he 
adds  that  this  ardour  and  these  great  gifts  were 
directed  towards  piety,  we  feel  that  he  has  found 
the  centre,  and  said  a  final  word  :  ''  Nature  had 
befriended  him  much  in  his  constitution  ;  for  he  was 
a  person  of  a  most  sweet  and  obliging  humour,  of 
great  candour  and  ingenuousness ;  .  .  .  his  soul  was 
made  up  of  harmony ;  ...  all  his  words  and  his 
very  tone  and  cadences  were  unusually  musical.  But 
that  which  most  of  all  captivated  and  ravished  his 
hearers  was  the  gaiety  and  richness  of  his  fancy;. for 
he  had  much  in  him  of  that  natural  enthusiasm  which 
inspires  all  great  poets  and  orators  ;  and  there  was 
a  generous  ferment  in  his  blood  and  spirits,  that 
forcibly  excited  his  imagination,  and  raised  it  to 
such  a  degree  of  luxuriancy  as  nothing  but  the  great- 
ness of  his  wit  and  judgment  could  have  kept  within 
due  bounds."  The  truth  could  hardly  be  better  told. 
And  Rust  adds  elsewhere  in  his  doge  :  "  His  humility 
was  coupled  with  extraordinary  piety  ;  and,  I  believe, 
he  spent  the  greatest  part  of  his  time  in  heaven  ;  his 
solemn  hours  of  prayer  took  up  a  considerable  portion 
of  his  life ;  and  we  are  not  to  doubt  but  he  had  learned 
of  St  Paul  to  pray  continually  ;  and  that  occasional 
ejaculations,  and  frequent  aspirations,  and  emigrations 
of  his  soul  after   God,  made   up  the   best   part   of  his 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  199 

/ 
devotions."       There    we    have     the     whole     man,     his 

ardour,  his  rich  endowments,  his  various  learning, 
(of  which  Rust  tells  us  also)  and  the  zeal  of  his 
piety. 

The  restraint  of  Taylor's  affluence,  that  which  saved 
it  from  expanding  into  a  luxuriant  marsh,  came  less  from 
his  judgment  than  from  his  zeal.  At  his  best  he  flows 
forward  with  a  harmonious  impetuosity,  like  a  river 
that  is  wide,  and  is  swifter  than  it  seems,  exultant, 
with  many  a  refluent  eddy  which  cannot  check,  but 
rather  is  part  of,  the  sweep  and  progress  of  the  stream. 
Nowhere  perhaps  does  the  natural  ardour  of  Taylor's 
heart  appear  more  attractively  than  in  the  discourse 
addressed  to  Mrs  Katherine  Philips — the  matchless 
Orinda — on  the  nature,  oflices,  and  measures  of  Friend- 
ship. Orinda,  whom  Mr  Gosse  calls  the  first  English 
sentimentalist,  had  erected  friendship  in  her  Arcady 
of  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan  into  a  kind  of  fine  art. 
"  The  noble  Palsemon,"  Jeremy  Taylor,  in  his  letter  to 
her  is  passionate,  with  wise  and  sacred  passion,  but 
certainly  is  untouched  by  any  effeminate  sentimentality. 
He  tells  us  how  every  common  sorrow  of  the  world,  if 
brought  home  to  the  imagination,  wounds  the  spirit  of 
charity  within  him,  yet  he  reserves  his  best  affections 
for  those  whom  kinship  or  circumstances  have  brought 
near  :  "  I  pray  for  all  mankind ;  I  am  grieved  at  every 
sad  story  I  hear ;  I  am  troubled  when  I  hear  of  a 
pretty  bride  murdered  in  her  bride-chamber  by  an 
ambitious  and  enraged  rival ;  I  shed  a  tear  when  I 
am  told  that  a  brave  king  was  misunderstood,  then 
slandered,    then   imprisoned,    and    then    put    to    death 


200    An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

by  evil  men ;  ^  and  I  can  never  read  the  story  of 
the  Parisian  Massacre,  or  the  Sicilian  vespers,  but  my 
blood  curdles,  and  I  am  disordered  by  two  or  three 
affections.  .  .  .  But  though  we  must  pray  for  all 
men,  yet  we  say  special  litanies  for  brave  kings  and 
holy  prelates,  and  the  wise  guides  of  souls ;  for  our 
brethren   and    relations,   our   wives   and    children." 

Not  even  the  poet  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass "  has  sung 
more  enthusiastically  of  comradeship  than  Taylor  in 
this  Discourse.  Friendship  is  like  the  sun,  the  eye 
of  the  world  ;  but  men,  according  to  their  worth,  differ 
in  their  capacity  to  receive  its  showers  of  warmth  and 
light.  The  emanation  of  the  beams  of  the  sun  is 
for  all  the  world ;  for  the  scalded  Indian  and  the 
poor  boy  that  shakes  at  the  foot  of  the  Riphseean  hills ; 
but  men  receive  of  friendship  only  what  they  can ; 
'^  and  some  have  only  a  dark  day  and  a  long  night, 
snows  and  white  cattle,  a  miserable  life,  and  a  per- 
petual harvest  of  catarrhs  and  consumptions,  apoplexies 
and  dead  palsies ;  but  some  have  splendid  fires  and 
aromatic  spices,  rich  wines  and  well-digested  fruits, 
great  wit  and  great  courage  ;  because  they  dwell  in 
his  eye,  and  look  in  his  face,  and  are  the  courtiers  of 
the  sun,  and  wait  upon  him  in  his  chambers  of  the 
East."  Such  splendid  fires  and  aromatic  spices  were 
the  gifts  of  the  sun  to  Taylor  in  his  best  creations. 
Addressing  in  this  Discourse  a  woman  celebrated 
for  her  genius  in  friendship,  he  must  needs  touch 
upon   the    subject   of   friendships    in    which    a   woman 

1  The  reference  seems  to  be  to  Charles  I.  ;  the  discourse  was  published 
in  1657. 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  201 

bears  a  part,  and  he  does  so  with  a  noble  enthusiasm. 
Marriage  in  its  ideal  he  conceives  as  friendship 
brought  to  perfection ;  and  beyond  this  passage  we 
have  little  to  lead  us  to  any  inference  as  to  the 
happiness  which  Taylor  found  in  his  first  or  his 
second  wife :  ^  "  You  may  see  how  much  I  differ 
from  the  morosity  of  those  Cynics  who  would  not 
admit  your  sex  into  the  communities  of  a  noble 
friendship  ...  I  cannot  say  that  women  are  capable 
of  all  those  excellencies  by  which  men  can  oblige  the 
world ;  and  therefore  a  female  friend  in  some  cases 
is  not  so  good  a  counsellor  as  a  wise  man,  and  cannot 
so  well  defend  my  honour,  nor  dispose  of  reliefs  and 
assistances,  if  she  be  under  the  power  of  another ; 
but  a  woman  can  love  as  passionately,  and  converse 
as  pleasantly,  and  retain  a  secret  as  faithfully,  and 
be  useful  in  her  proper  ministries  ;  and  she  can  die 
for  her  friend  as  well  as  the  bravest  Roman  knight." 
Over  which  fine  outbreak  Orinda  may  well  have  given 
a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

It  is  unfortunate  for  Taylor  that  he  should  be  known 
chiefly  by  ornaments  detached  from  his  larger  com- 
positions. The  lark  rising  from  his  bed  of  grass,  and 
beaten  back  with  the  loud  sighings  of  an  eastern  wind, 
the  rose  newly  springing  from  the  clefts  of  its  hood,  and 
dismantled  of  its  too  youthful  and  unripe  retirements — 
these  and  the  like  are  beautiful  and  memorable,  but 
if  read  as  elegant  extracts  they  leave  an  impression  that 
Taylor's  excellence  lay  in  filigree  work,  and  that  sweet- 

1  His  second  wife  is  believed  to  have  been  a   natural  daughter  of 
Charles  I. 


202     An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

ness  with  him  was  not  united  with  severity  or  strength. 
Nor,  indeed,  was  it  always.  But  Taylor's  happiness  of 
temper  and  his  florid  graces,  growing  freely  like  the  little 
rings  of  the  vine,  were  not  inconsistent  with  habits  of 
almost  ascetic  discipline  and  with  an  energy  of  imagina- 
tion which  shows  itself  in  greatness  of  composition.  The 
large  ordonnance  of  some  of  his  discourses  will  surely 
strike  any  reader  of  those  which  treat  of  Christ's  advent 
to  Judgment.  There  is  in  them  a  magnificence  of 
terror,  but  of  terror  relieved  by  a  solemn  joy,  which 
reminds  one,  if  not  of  the  splendid  mastery  of  Tintoretto, 
yet,  at  least,  of  the  constructive  power  of  Poussin. 
The  sweep  and  grandeur  of  the  whole  are  the  true 
evidence  of  the  preacher's  imaginative  passion.  He 
puts  the  trumpet  to  his  lips,  and  it  is  a 

Tuba  minim  spargens  sonum 
Per  sepulchra  regionum, 

such  as  might  penetrate  the  ears,  let  us  not  say  of 
the  watchful  dead,  but  rather  of  Hogarth's  sleeping 
contestation. 

Fervour  in  the  pursuit  of  devout  ends  is  what  Taylor 
above  all  desires  to  breathe  into  his  hearers.  If  we 
pray,  let  our  prayers  be  as  flames  of  fire  ascending  from) 
the  heart's  altar.  When  you  reckon  up  your  prayers/ 
''you  must  reckon,  not  by  the  number  of  the  collects) 
but  by  your  sighs  and  passions,  by  the  vehemence  of 
your  desires,  and  the  fervour  of  your  spirit,  the  appre- 
hension of  your  need,  and  the  consequent  prosecution 
of  your  supply."  For  cold  prayers  are  not  put  into 
the  account,  but  are  laid  aside  "  like  the  buds  of  roses, 
which  a  cold   wind   hath  nipped    into   death,   and   the 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  203 

discoloured  tawny  face  of  an  Indian  slave."  And  again, 
without  elaborated  metaphor,  yet  in  words  no  less  char- 
acteristic of  Taylor  than  the  last  :  "  He  that  is  cold  and 
tame  in  his  prayers  hath  not  tasted  of  the  deliciousness 
of  religion  and  the  goodness  of  God  ;  he  is  a  stranger 
to  the  secrets  of  the  Kingdom,  and  therefore  he  does  not 
know  what  it  is  either  to  have  hunger  or  satiety  ;  and 
therefore  neither  are  they  hungry  for  God  nor  satisfied 
with  the  world  ;  but  i*emain  stupid  and  inapprehensive, 
without  resolution  and  determination,  never  choosing 
clearly,  nor  pursuing  earnestly,  and  therefore  never  enter 
into  possession,  but  always  stand  at  the  gates  of  weariness, 
unnecessary  caution,  and  perpetual  irresolution." 

Three  sermons  are  specially  devoted  to  the  subject 
of  "  Lukewarmness  and  Zeal ;  or  Spiritual  Fervour." 
Taylor's  own  fervour  makes  him  courageous  in  his 
teaching.  Contrasting  the  spirit  of  Christian  worship 
with  that  of  the  Mosaic  ritual,  he  utters  words  which  we 
might  rather  have  expected  to  hear  from  the  lips  of  a 
Puritan  divine.  By  the  shadow  of  the  ceremony,  under 
the  law  of  Moses,  God  did  indeed  require  the  substantial 
worship  ;  ''  yet  because  they  were  to  mind  the  outward 
action,  it  took  much  off  from  the  intention  and  activity 
of  the  spirit;  man  could  not  do  both  busily."  Milton 
has  used  the  same  argument  against  elaborate  ceremony. 
The  preacher  again  dares  to  declare  boldly,  though 
under  the  shadow  of  St  Augustine's  authority,  that 
sin  may  be  the  cloudy  porch  which  leads  to  sanctity  ; 
the  loss  of  chastity  by  one — virgin  or  widow — who  is 
chaste  and  proud,  may  be,  in  a  true  sense,  a  means 
to  grace  ;   to  fall  into   offence  is  sometimes  a  remedy. 


204    An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

He  asserts  that  a  lukewarm  religion,  if  it  be  not  in 
progress  to  a  better  state,  is  "  much  worse "  than 
no  religion  at  all.  He  does  not  scruple  to  say,  that 
to  give  to  the  poor  is  better  than  to  give  to  a  church. 
And  for  one  whose  preaching,  no  doubt,  was  hung  upon 
by  many  enraptured  auditors  of  the  sex  that  most  looks 
up  to  a  gracious  pulpiteer,  it  needed,  perhaps,  yet  higher 
courage  to  announce  pretty  plainly  that  certain  of  them 
had  better  be  at  home  attending  to  their  household 
duties.  ''  Martha  was  troubled  with  much  serving ; 
that  was  '  more  than  needs,'  and  therefore  she  was  to 
blame  ;  and  sometimes  hearing  in  some  circumstances 
may  be  '  more  than  needs ' ;  and  some  women  are 
'  troubled  with  over  much  hearing,'  and  then  they 
had  better  have  been  serving  the  necessities  of  their 
house."  It  would  be  base  to  conjecture  that  a  popular 
Puritan  lecturer  was  holding  forth  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Golden  Grove. 

Easy  ways  to  salvation  were  viewed  by  Taylor  with 
distrust ;  strait  is  the  gate ;  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
suffereth  violence,  and  the  violent  take  it  by  force.  In 
the  second  sermon  on  "  Godly  Fear "  he  had  ventured 
to  say  that  our  sins  are  not  pardoned  easily  and  quickly  ; 
pardon  fluctuates  like  the  wave  when  the  tide  has 
turned,  and  only  gradually  invades  the  shore ;  we 
are  to  expect  it  upon  such  terms  as  are  revealed,  which 
include  time,  and  labour,  and  uncertainty,  and  fear, 
and  holy  living.  How  shall  we  know  that  we  have 
received  the  grace  of  forgiveness  ?  Not  by  some  sudden 
inward  light,  which  may  be  a  false  phosphorescence 
sprung  from  our  own  heart.      There  is  a  surer  way  of 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  205 

knowledge :  "  If  I  have  sinned  against  God  in  the 
shameful  crime  of  last,  then  God  hath  pardoned  my 
sins,  when,  upon  repentance  and  prayers.  He  hath  given 
me  the  grace  of  chastity.  My  drunkenness  is  forgiven 
when  I  have  acquired  the  grace  of  temperance  and  a 
sober  spirit.  My  covetousness  shall  no  more  be  a  damn- 
ing sin,  Avhen  I  have  a  loving  and  charitable  spirit  ; 
loving  to  do  good,  and  despising  the  world."  In  all 
things  let  us  base  our  confidence  on  grounds  that  are 
solid  and  stable.  ''  Let  us  proceed,"  says  Taylor  in 
one  of  his  noblest  words,  ''  from  causes  to  effects,  .  .  . 
and  believe  felicity  not  to  be  a  chance  but  a  choice." 
And  it  is  in  such  words  as  these  rather  than  in  the 
well-known  decorative  passages  that  we  reach  to  the  , 
strength  of  the  great  preacher's  spirit.  I 

All  the  highest  spiritual  teachers  have  declared  that 
a  state  of  aridity  is  sometimes  as  profitable  to  the 
soul  as  a  state  of  refreshment.  Taylor  exhorts  his 
hearers  to  fill  the  dry  places  at  least  with  duties  well 
done  :  "  This  delight  is  not  to  be  understood  as  if  it 
were  always  required  that  we  should  always  feel  an 
actual  cheerfulness  and  sensible  joy  ;  such  as  was  that 
of  Jonathan,  when  he  had  newly  tasted  honey,  and 
the  light  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  was  refreshed 
and  pleasant.  This  happens  sometimes,  when  God 
pleases  to  entice,  or  reward  a  man's  spirit,  with  little 
antepasts  of  heaven ;  but  such  a  delight  only  is 
necessary,  and  a  duty,  that  we  always  choose  our  duty 
regularly,  and  undervalue  the  pleasures  of  temptation, 
and  proceed  in  the  work  of  grace  with  a  firm  choice 
and  unabated  election."      If  we  elect  to  go  still  forward 


2o6    An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

under   our  load    of  difficulty   and  pain  it    is    enough  ; 
what  we  choose,  that  we  delight  in.^ 

Out  of  the  strong  came  forth  sweetness  ;  and  here 
the  strength  is  that  of  an  eager,  ardent  nature.  Let  us 
see  Taylor  aright,  and  we  shall  perceive  that  his  sweet- 
ness grows  out  of  an  inward  severity,  and  that  the 
blossoming  passages  of  his  writings  mean  often  that  the 
passion  of  hie  heart  must  break  forth  in  beauty.  The 
following,  from  the  second  sermon  "  Of  Lukewarmness 
and  Zeal,"  may  serve  as  an  example,  which  is  highly 
characteristic  of  the  writer;  it  is  no  ornament  attached 
externally,  but  the  flowering  of  sap  ascending  from 
roots  that  strike  deep  in  earth  :  "  You  may  observe 
it,  that  so  long  as  the  light  shines  bright,  and  the  fires 
of  devotion  and  desires  flame  out,  so  long  the  mind  of 
a  man  stands  close  to  the  altar,  and  waits  upon  the 
sacrifice ;  but  as  the  fires  die,  and  desires  decay,  so  the 
mind  steals  away,  and  walks  abroad  to  see  the  little 
images  of  beauty  and  pleasure,  which  it  beholds  in  the 
falling  stars  and  little  glow-worms  of  the  world.  The 
river  that  runs  slow  and  creeps  by  the  banks,  and  begs 
leave  of  every  turf  to  let  it  pass,  is  drawn  into  little 
hollownesses,  and  spends  itself  in  smaller  portions,  and 
dies  with  diversion  ;  but  when  it  runs  with  vigorous- 
ness  and  a  full  stream,  and  breaks  down  every  obstacle, 
making  it  even  as  its  own  brow,  it  stays  not  to  be 
tempted  by  little  avocations,  and  to  creep  into  holes, 
but  runs  into  the  sea  through  full  and  useful  channels ; 
so  is  a  man's  prayer,  if  it  moves  upon  the  feet  of  an 
abated  appetite ;  it  wanders  into  the  society  of  every 
^  "Of  Lukewarmness  and  Zeal,"  Part  II. 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  207 

trifling  accident,  and  stays  at  the  corners  of  the  fancy, 
and  talks  with  every  object  it  meets,  and  cannot  arrive 
at  heaven  ;  but  when  it  is  carried  upon  the  wings  of 
passion  and  strong  desires,  a  swift  motion  and  a  hungry 
appetite,  it  passes  on  through  all  the  intermediate 
region  of  clouds,  and  stays  not  till  it  dwells  at  the  foot 
of  the  throne  where  mercy  sits,  and  thence  sends  holy 
showers  of  refreshment."  The  sermons  on  Lukewarm- 
ness  and"  Zeal  close  with  certain  warnings,  for  Taylor's 
religions  prudence  was  great  and  taught  him  that  true 
zeal  has  its  measures,  and  intemperate  zeal  its  dangers. 
His  age  seemed  to  him  an  age  of  violent  passions  tending 
to  strife,  but  of  much  lukewarmness  towards  what  is 
sincerely  good.  He  pleads  therefore  for  a  zeal  accord-  \ 
ins:  to  knowtedo^e,  not  for  a  via  media  of  tameness,  ; 
but  for  a  pure  ardour  in  the  pursuit  of  what  he  terms 
a  persevering,  a  great,  a  passionate  religion.  \ 

In  days  of  trouble  and  division  Taylor  put  forth  an 
Eirenicon  in  his  "  Liberty  of  Prophesying."      To  reduce 
the  essential  articles  of  Christian  belief  to  those  of  the 
Apostles'  Creed,  to   maintain  the  prerogative  of  human 
reason,  to  exhibit  the  uncertainty  of  theological  opinions, 
and  to  write  in  the  temper  of  charity  was  certainly  to 
serve  the  cause  of  toleration.      But  a  man  may  widen  < 
the  bounds  of  toleration,  yet  draw  the  line  with  a  rigid 
pen.      He    may    shrink    from   giving    his    fundamental 
principles    their    complete    application.       As    an    Irish, 
bishop  Taylor's  action  certainly  did  not  result  in  peace  ;1 
but  it  would  be  unjust  not  to  bear  in  mind   the   diffi- 
culties   of   his    position.       He    insisted    on    order    and 
obedience     within     his      own     communion  ;      and     his 


2o8    An  Anglica7i  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

opponents  were  not  of  a  compliant  temper.  *'We 
find,"  he  writes  in  the  dedication  of  his  sermon  preached 
at  the  opening  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  "  that  all 
Christian  churches  kept  this  rule ;  they  kept  them- 
selves and  others  close  to  the  rule  of  faith,  and 
peaceably  suffered  one  another  to  differ  in  ceremonies, 
but  suffered  no  difference  amongst  their  own  ;  they  gave 
liberty  to  other  churches,  and  gave  laws,  and  no  liberty, 
to  their  own  subjects :  and  at  this  day  the  churches  of 
Geneva,  France,  Switzerland,  Germany,  Low  Countries, 
tie  all  their  people  to  their  own  laws,  but  tie  up  no 
man's  conscience ;  if  he  be  not  persuaded  as  they  are, 
let  him  charitably  dissent,  and  leave  that  government, 
and  adhere  to  his  own  communion."  Taylor's  principles 
of  conformity  were  rather  defensive  than  designedly 
aggressive,  yet  in  its  result  his  action  savours  too  much 
of  Black  Bartholomew  day,  and  those  who  should  cele- 
brate his  memory  with  most  applause  are  the  Presby- 
terians of  the  north  of  Ireland,  who  were  gainers  by  his 

\    over-strained  spirit  of  legality. 

Yet  to  his  Irish  days  belongs  a  second  and  a  very 
admirable  Eirenicon  —  the  sermon  which  he  named 
"  Via  Intelligentife,"  preached  before  "  the  little  but 
excellent  University  of  Dublin,"  and  published  in  1662. 
It  is  addressed  to  such  earnest  seekers  for  truth  as  a 
sanguine  person   might  suppose  would   specially  gather 

.  around  a  universit}^,  and  the  text  is  the  conciliating  one 
"  If  any  man  will  do  his  will,  he  shall  know  of  the 
doctrine."  Such  a  text  is  indeed  two-edged,  and  may 
lend  itself  to  uncharitable  handling.  We,  of  this  com- 
munion  or   of  that,    do   God's    will   and    know    of  the 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  209 

doctrine ;  those  who  maintain  another  doctrine  have 
erred  because  of  evil  affections  and  unrighteous  lives, 
and  cannot  be  among  the  doers  of  God's  will.  There  is 
something  naive  in  such  sophistry  as  this ;  but  Taylor 
in  the  sermon  sophisticates  his  text  with  most  sincere 
conviction.  Kings  and  bishops  are  of  divine  ordinance  ; 
to  submit  to  them  is  to  be  loyal  to  the  will  of  God. 
What  criminals  therefore  are  they  who  oppose  bishops 
and  a  king,  men  who  "  rise  up  against  their  fathers, 
and  are  cruel  to  their  brethren,  and  stir  up  the  people 
to  sedition  ;  and  all  this  with  a  cold  stomach  and  a  hot 
liver,  with  a  hard  heart  and  a  tender  conscience,  with 
humble  carriage  and  a  proud  spirit."  And  in  like 
manner  consider,  he  cries,  the  "  infinite  unreasonable- 
ness "  that  is  in  the  Popish  religion,  how  against 
common  sense  their  doctrine  of  transubstantiation  is, 
how  against  the  common  experience  of  human  nature  is 
the  doctrine  of  the  Pope's  infallibility,  how  against 
Scripture  is  the  doctrine  of  indulgences  and  purgatory. 
How  is  belief  in  these  absurdities  possible  ?  Simply 
enough  ;  the  devisers  of  the  doctrines  were  not  among 
those  w^ho  did  God's  will ;  the  doctrines  were  imposed 
upon  the  credulous  for  the  sake  of  temporal  ends. 
Every  proposition  of  the  Popish  religion  which  differs 
from  those  held  by  us  is  meant  "  to  serve  the  end  of 
money  or  of  power."  Taylor  does  not  raise  the  question 
w^hether  a  like  argument  could  have  been  effectively 
used  by  a  nonconformist  against  the  Anglican  establish- 
ment. 

But    putting    aside    matter   of  controversy,   there   is 
much   that    is   of  high  excellence  in   the  "  Via  Intelli- 

o 


2IO    An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

gentise."  It  admirably  describes  the  temper  in  which 
truth  should  be  sought ;  it  admirably  distinguishes 
between  a  notional  assent  to  propositions  and  the  real 
and  vital  apprehension  of  truth  ;  it  justly  rebukes  some 
of  the  trifling  or  over-curious  learning  of  the  schools. 
The  drift  of  the  whole  is  that  "  theology  is  rather  a 
divine  life  than  a  divine  knowledge." 

Men  of  his  time,  says  Taylor,  had  been  wrangling 
about  peace,  and  seeking  the  ascertainment  of  some 
common  body  of  truth  as  the  ground  of  religious  unity. 
Each  rival  communion  was  prepared  to  exhibit  a  system 
of  belief,  and  tell  you  that  is  the  true  religion,  and 
they  are  the  Church,  and  the  peculiar  people  of  God. 
Of  this,  says  Taylor,  there  will  be  no  end — "for  divide 
the  Church  into  twenty  parts,  and,  in  whatsoever  part 
your  lot  falls,  you  and  your  party  are  damned  by  the 
other  nineteen."  Another  imagined  way  to  reconcile 
the  differences  of  Christendom  is  that  of  moderation,  a 
way  favoured  by  Erasmus,  Grotius,  and  others.  Let 
each  sect  abate  its  asperities,  and  pare  away  something 
of  its  distinctive  doctrine,  and  let  all  join  in  common 
terms  and  phrases  of  accommodation.  "From  hence" — 
such  is  Taylor's  remorseless  statement  of  his  conviction 
— "  can  succeed  nothing  but  folly  and  a  fantastic  peace  : 
this  is  but  the  skinning  of  an  old  sore  ;  it  will  break 
out  upon  all  occasions."  Something,  he  thinks,  may  be 
gained  by  clearness  of  definition  in  questions  of  con- 
troversy ;  but,  after  all,  this  is  nothing  else  but  "  a 
drawing  up  the  armies  in  battalia  with  great  skill  and 
discipline " ;  it  brings  the  combat  to  a  precise  issue, 
and  the  next  thing  the  combatants  do  is  to  thrust  their 


Jei'emy  Taylor,  Baxter  2 1 1 

swords  into  one  another's  sides.  What  remedy,  Taylor 
asks,  after  all  this  ?  Is  it  to  be  found  in  the  complete 
toleration  of  all  opinions?  This  is  a  way  of  peace  rather 
than  of  truth.  It  is  indeed  a  highly  reasonable  way  ; 
yet  how  can  the  intolerant,  who  seek  not  equality 
but  absolute  rule,  be  themselves  tolerated  ?  Complete 
toleration — Taylor  spoke  of  his  own  time,  and  the  words 
were  spoken  in  Ireland — "  is  better  in  contemplation 
than  in  practice."  Mere  opinions  certainly  are  not  to 
be  persecuted  ;  but  it  is  equally  certain  that  opinions 
which  lead  to  violence  in  states  ought  not  to  be  made 
public  and  permitted. 

The  human  ways  towards  truth  and  peace  have  failed 
and  must  fail.  What  is  God's  way  ?  "If  any  man  do 
His  will  he  shall  know  of  the  doctrine.  .  .  .  The 
way  to  judge  of  religion  is  by  doing  of  our  duty  :  and 
theology  is  rather  a  divine  life  than  a  divine  knowledge. 
In  heaven,  indeed,  we  shall  first  see,  and  then  love ; 
but  here  on  earth,  we  must  first  love,  and  love  will 
open  our  eyes  as  well  as  our  hearts  ;  and  we  shall  then 
see,  and  perceive,  and  understand." 

Taylor  does  not  mean  that  one  who  does  the  duty 
that  lies  nearest  to  him  will  be  enlightened  by  new 
revelations,  and  be  conducted  by  ecstasy,  and  pray  in  a 
transfiguration,  and  live  upon  raptures.  The  spirit  of 
God  does  not  spend  its  holy  influences  "  in  disguises 
and  convulsions  of  the  understanding."  It  does  not 
destroy  but  rather  heightens  reason.  The  process  is 
simple  ;  good  men  see  what  is  good,  and  they  lay  hold 
of  it ;  ''  half  a  word  is  enough  to  make  them  under- 
stand ;  a  nod  is  a  sufficient  reproof ;  the  crowing  of  a 


212     An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

cock,  the  singing  of  a  lark,  the  dawning  of  the  day, 
and  the  washing  their  hands,  are  to  them  competent 
memorials  of  religion  and  warnings  of  their  duty." 
Human  learning,  indeed,  brings  excellent  aids  to  the 
true  knowledge  of  religion  ;  but  by  arguing  and  dispute 
we  see  no  more  than  the  shadow  of  God,  in  which  are 
many  dark  appearances,  little  certainty,  and  much  con- 
jecture. If  by  human  learning  we  have  attained  to  the 
meaning  of  a  divine  word,  there  is  still  "  a  meaning  of 
the  meaning "  (for  the  leaves  of  the  book  are  written 
within  and  without),  a  living  secret,  which  can  only  be 
made  real  for  us  through  practice — "  this  is  to  be  felt, 
and  not  to  be  talked  of;  and  they  that  never  touched 
it  with  their  finger  may  secretly  perhaps  laugh  at  it  in 
their  heart,  and  be  never  the  wiser."  Taylor  himself 
was  a  man  of  multifarious  learning,  a  theologian  and  a 
casuist,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  scholars  too  often 
lived  upon  air  and  empty  notions,  troubling  themselves, 
as  he  admirably  puts  it,  with  tying  and  untying  knots, 
like  hypochondriacs  in  a  fit  of  melancholy,  raising  foolish 
questions,  spending  zeal  in  things  unprofitable,  mak- 
ing religion  to  consist  of  outsides.  "  No,  no  "  ;  he  cries, 
"the  man  that  is  wise,  he  that  is  conducted  by  the  Spirit 
of  God,  knows  better  in  what  Christ's  kingdom  does  con- 
sist than  to  throw  away  his  time,  and  interest,  and  peace 
and  safety — for  what  ?  for  religion  ?  no  :  for  the  body  of 
religion  ?  not  so  much  :  for  the  garment  of  the  body  of 
religion?"  no,  not  for  so  much:  but  for  the  fringes  of  the 
garment  of  the  body  of  religion.  A  word  that  has  meanings 
for  the  nineteenth  century  as  truly  as  for  Taylor's  own  day. 
Stated    in    a   word,   Taylor's   teaching  is   that   truth 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  213 

resides  implicitly  in  goodness ;  it  may  never  attain  to  an 
explicit  statement  in  words  or  propositions,  but  it  abides 
in  the  heart  as  a  hidden  wisdom,  which  regulates  conduct 
and  contains  all  that  is  needful  for  life  and  godliness. 
He  does  not  shrink  from  illustrating  his  central  thought 
by  a  striking  example.  Who  is  he  that  best  knows,  as 
far  as  it  can  be  known  to  man,  the  unintelligible  mystery 
of  the  Divine  nature  ?  Not  he  who  can  do  no  more 
than  recite  the  "  Quicunque  vult,"  and  brandish  his 
sword  in  honour  of  the  credenda.  We  may  amuse 
ourselves,  says  Taylor,  with  essences  and  hypostasies 
and  personalities,  distinctions  without  difference,  priority 
in  coequalities,  and  unity  in  pluralities,  and  may  be 
none  the  wiser ;  we  may  build  three  tabernacles  for  the 
Trinity  in  our  head,  and  may  talk  something,  and  know 
not  what.  But  the  good  man,  who  feels  ''  the  power  of 
the  Father,"  he  to  whom  "  the  Son  "  is  become  "wisdom, 
righteousness,  sanctification  and  redemption,"  he  in 
"  whose  heart  the  love  of  the  Spirit  of  God  is  spread  "  ; 
he — though  he  understands  nothing  of  what  is  unin- 
telligible— alone  understands  the  mystery  of  the  holy 
Trinity,  for,  vigorous  in  holy  actions,  he  sees  with  his 
heart  what  his  tongue  can  never  express,  and  his  meta- 
physics can  never  prove. 

Such  is  Jeremy  Taylor's  ''  Eirenicon "  ;  one  which 
settled  nothing,  and  could  settle  nothing  immediately ; 
one  which  could  not  on  the  instant  avert  grave  errors  of 
judgment  or  stay  unhappy  courses  of  action ;  but  one 
which,  if  taken  to  heart,  and  made  real  to  the  con- 
science and  to  conduct,  must  in  the  end  form  a  temper 
favourable  both  to  truth  and  peace. 


2  14    -^^  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

II 

This  was  an  Eirenicon  which  came  from  the  victorious 
side,  from  the  party  in  power,  and  in  the  hour  of  triumph. 
A  still  more  remarkable  and  beautiful  utterance  of  that 
spirit  which  is  peaceable  and  pure  came  from  the  party 
that  suffered  persecution.  Baxter's  autobiography,  one 
of  the  most  interesting  books  of  nonconformist  literature, 
was  not  published  until  after  the  author's  death,  but  the 
first  part,  which  is  not,  as  are  the  later  parts,  encum- 
bered with  a  chaos  of  documents,  was  written  about  two 
years  after  the  disaster  of  Black  Bartholomew  day. 
Baxter  was  not  then  an  old  man ;  he  was  not  quite 
fifty ;  but  in  experience  he  was  old ;  and  bodily  in- 
firmities, incessant  labours,  and  the  intensity  of  his  zeal 
on  behalf  of  others  had  worn  him  and  brought  on  what 
he  terms  a  lorcemiatura  senectus.  No  matter  lay  nearer 
to  his  heart,  except  the  salvation  of  souls,  than  concilia- 
tion in  the  religion  of  Protestants ;  he  gave  his  best 
endeavours,  not  always  perhaps  with  wisdom  in  details, 
but  always  with  entire  and  disinterested  sincerity, 
towards  attaining  a  "  comprehension,"  which  should 
reconcile  and  unite  the. moderate  "Episcopal  men"  with 
the  moderates  among  the  Presbyterians  and  the  In- 
dependents ;  and,  though  he  succeeded  for  a  time  and 
in  a  measure  in  his  own  neighbourhood  of  Kidder- 
minster, we  know  how  completely  his  larger  hopes  and 
purposes  were  wrecked.  These  efforts  towards  a  com- 
prehension form  a  well  -  known  piece  of  English 
ecclesiastical  history,  and  cannot  be  considered  here. 
But  there  is  a  passage  at  the  close   of  the  first  part 


Jeremy  Taylor^  Baxter  215 

of  the  autobiography — "  Reliquiae  Baxterianse,"  as  it 
was  named  by  his  colleague  and  editor,  Matthew 
Sylvester — which  tells  of  the  changes  that  came  over 
his  mind  and  temper  and  opinions  with  advancing  years, 
and  it  is  in  these  memorable  pages  that  Baxter's  best 
"  Eirenicon  "  may  be  found.^ 

Baxter's  autobiography  has  one  quality  which  is 
among  the  rarest  in  books  of  its  kind,  and  which  gives 
it  a  value  almost  unique — it  is  written  with  absolute 
sincerity.  He  dresses  up  nothing;  he  does  not  project 
before  his  imagination  any  ideal  self,  and  fit  things  to 
correspond  with  that  ideal;  he  aims  simply  at  telling 
what  he  knew  or  what  he  believed  to  be  true.  We 
can  see  that  he  often  viewed  public  affairs  too  much 
from  what  we  may  call  the  ministerial  stand-point,  but 
that  was  natural,  and  the  fact  is  neither  obtruded  nor 
disguised.  We  perceive  how  his  scrupulosity  of  con- 
science, his  habit  of  balancing  all  the  reasons  for  and 
against  a  course  of  conduct  in  some  degree  disqualified 
him  for  doing  justice  to  men  of  action,  who  grasped 
truth  largely  and  roughly,  and  who  knew  that  lack  of 
promptitude  might  be  a  greater  evil  than  many  errors 
committed  on  the  way  to  a  great  end.  The  animal 
basis  for  audacity  which  lies  in  a  vigorous  body  and 
hearty  spirits  was  with  him  wholly  absent ;  he  was 
almost  constantly  a   sufferer   from   physical    infirmities, 

1  While  preparing  this  chapter  I  noticed  that  admirable  use  was  made 
of  this  passage  from  Baxter's  autobiography  in  Jowett's  "Sermons  Bio- 
graphical and  Miscellaneous,"  pp.  73-78,  and  that  he  added  a  nineteenth- 
century  application  and  extension.  Sir  James  Stephen,  "Essays  in 
Ecclesiastical  Biography,"  II.,  60,  spoke  of  the  passage  as  "familiar 
to  most  students  of  English  literature,"  which,  I  fear,  was  an  amiable 
form  of  politeness  to  his  readers. 


2]6    An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

with  his  acrimonious  blood,  his  excoriated  finger-ends, 
his  rheumatic  head,  his  flatulent  stomach,  his  extreme 
chilliness  without,  his  bleedings  at  the  nose,  his  pearls 
in  the  eyes,  his  latent  stones  in  the  reins,  and  all  else 
of  which  he  has  to  tell  his  readers,  because  '*  the 
case  of  his  body  had  a  great  operation  on  his  soul." 
But  he  found  that  the  best  palliative  for  his  ailments 
was  incessant  activity ;  there  was  much  to  be  done ; 
death  stood  always,  as  he  thought,  at  hand ;  the  spirit 
lodged  in  this  crazy  tenement  of  clay  was  aflame  with 
love  for  the  souls  of  men  ;  and  he  toiled  as  if  with  the 
strength  of  ten.  The  union  in  Baxter  of  the  indefatig- 
able pastor  and  the  inquisitive  and  restless  schoolman 
of  Protestant  theology  is  perhaps  his  distinguishing 
characteristic.  His  intellect  pursued  logical  distinctions 
and  subtleties  with  an  almost  morbid  curiosity ;  his 
heart  was  quick  with  a  passion  of  charity,  which  did 
not  expend  itself  in  mere  contemplation,  but  animated 
a  life  made  up  of  methodical  and  industrious  habits. 

He  belonged  to  no  party;  in  each  he  saw  some  things 
to  applaud  and  some  things  to  condemu.-^  He  was 
neither  Episcopal  (in  what  he  calls  the  diocesan  sense) 
nor  strictly  a  Presbyterian  ;  he  was  too  Arminian  for 
the  high  Calvinists  and  too  Calvinistic  for  the 
Arminians.  He  thought  kneeling  at  the  Communion 
lawful,  and  made  no  scruple  about  the  ring  in  marriage; 
he  doubted  of  the  surplice,  and  never  could  bring  him- 
self to  use  the  Cross  in  baptism  ;  he  admitted  that  a 
form  of  prayer  and  liturgy  is  not  in  itself  forbidden,  but 
held   that  the   English   liturgy   has   much  disorder  and 

^  See  the  opening  of  Part  II.  of  "  Reliquiae  Baxterianae." 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  217 

defectiveness  in  it.  He  had  duly  subscribed  to  the 
thirty-nine  articles,  but,  in  his  maturer  days,  came  to 
judge  subscription  unlawful.  In  each  matter  of  con- 
science he  tried,  with  the  aids  of  Scripture  and  much 
study  and  prayer,  to  puzzle  out  for  himself  the  right  or 
the  wrong. 

"  How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet  of 
him  that  publish eth  peace."  Baxter's  feet  were  often 
upon  those  Delectable  mountains  of  which  Bunyan 
speaks,  from  whose  heights  the  celestial  city  can  be 
seen,  but  his  work  lay  among  the  weavers  of  the  streets 
of  Kidderminster.  Sermons,  catechisings,  visitings,  the 
resolution  of  doubts,  meetings  for  parish  discipline,  con- 
ferences and  discussions  with  ministers,  works  of  charity, 
the  unpaid  practice  of  physic,  and,  with  all  this,  the 
incessant  exercise  of  his  pen,  filled  up  fourteen  years 
with  what  he  calls  sweet  employment.  "  For  ever 
blessed  be  the  God  of  mercies,"  he  cries,  "  that  in  times 
of  usurpation  I  had  all  this  mercy  and  happy  freedom, 
when  under  our  rightful  king  and  governor  I  and  many 
hundreds  more  are  silenced,  and  laid  by  as  broken 
vessels,  and  vilified  as  scarce  to  be  tolerated  to  live 
privately  and  quietly  in  the  land  ! "  Preaching  to  a 
people  who  had  not  been  made  sermon-proof — the  word 
is  Baxter's  own — by  an  awakening  ministry,  he  lit  up 
a  spirit  of  piety  hitherto  unknown  in  the  town.  Five 
galleries  were  added  to  the  church ;  on  the  Lord's  day 
there  was  no  disorder  to  be  seen,  "but  you  might  hear  an 
hundred  families  singing  psalms  and  repeating  sermons 
as  you  passed  through  the  streets."  Wheu  Baxter 
preached    at    Worcester    the    poor    nailers    and    other 


2 1 8    An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

labourers  would  not  only  crowd  the  church,  but  would 
hang  upon  the  windows  and  the  leads  without.  The 
preacher  was  not  of  an  over  sanguine  temper — a  man, 
indeed,  "  of  a  discouraged  spirit  " — but  he  believed  that 
were  it  not  for  the  faction  of  the  prelatists  on  the  one 
side,  and  the  factions  of  the  giddy  and  turbulent  sec- 
taries on  the  other,  ''  England  had  been  like,  in  a 
quarter  of  an  age,  to  have  become  a  land  of  saints  and 
a  pattern  of  holiness  to  all  the  world."  He  admits  that 
new  and  strange  sects,  some  of  which  he  has  described 
in  a  passage  of  great  interest,  arose  ;  but  though  he  was 
a  lover  of  religious  harmony,  he  called  to  remembrance 
"  that  sects  have  most  abounded  when  the  Gospel  hath 
most  prospered."  It  is  better,  he  thinks,  that  men 
should  be  purblind,  and  make  the  mistakes  of  the  pur- 
blind, than  that  they  should  make  no  mistakes,  being 
blind  :  ''  He  that  never  regardeth  the  word  of  God  is 
not  like  to  err  much  about  it ;  men  will  sooner  fall  out 
about  gold  or  pearls  than  swine  or  asses  will." 

His  books  and  pamphlets,  most  of  which  had  some 
immediate  work  to  do,  and  having  done  their  work 
might  well  fall  on  sleep,  were  the  outpourings  of  an 
eager  intellect  and  a  fervid  heart.  "  Indeed,  for  the 
'  Saints'  Rest,'  I  had  four  months'  vacancy  to  write  it 
(but  in  the  midst  of  continual  languishing  and  medi- 
cine) ;  but  for  the  rest  I  wrote  them  in  the  crowd  of 
all  my  other  employments,  which  would  allow  me  no 
great  leisure  for  polishing  and  exactness,  or  any  orna- 
ment ;  so  that  I  scarce  ever  wrote  one  sheet  twice  over, 
nor  stayed  to  make  any  blots  or  interlinings,  but  was 
fain  to  let  it  go  as  it  was  first  conceived  ;  and  when  my 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  219 

own  desire  was  rather  to  stay  upon  one  thing  long  than 
run  over  many,  some  sudden  occasion  or  other  extorted 
almost  all  my  writings  from  me  ;  and  the  apprehensions 
of  present  usefulness  or  necessity  prevailed  against  all 
other  motives."  He  tells  us  that  in  little  more  than  a 
year  twenty  thousand  copies  of  '•'  A  Call  to  the  Un- 
converted "  were  printed  in  authorised  editions,  while 
many  thousand  copies  appeared  in  surreptitious  impres- 
sions which  poor  men  stole  for  lucre's  sake.  His  wife 
was  of  opinion  that  he  "had  done  better  to  have  written 
fewer  books,  and  to  have  done  those  few  better";  he 
maintained  that  while  he  wrote  none  needlessly,  the 
imperfection  of  two  was  a  less  evil  than  the  total 
omission  of  one.  But  in  the  end  he  came  round  to  his 
wife's  point  of  view,  and  confesses  that  fewer  well 
studied   and   polished   had   been  a  real  gain. 

A  notice  of  Baxter,  however  slight,  would  do  him 
wrong,  if  it  failed  to  make  some  mention  of  the  noble 
and  tender  woman  who  devoted  her  life  to  him  and  to 
his  work.  The  two  figures,  that  of  the  zealous  pastor, 
the  great  divine,  touched  with  premature  old  age  and 
worn  with  bodily  infirmities,  and  the  young  wife  once 
''glittering  in  costly  apparel  and  delighting  in  her 
romances,"  who  was  stronger  and  weaker  than  he,  and 
who  for  nineteen  years  supported  him  with  her  wisdom 
and  her  faithful  affection,  live  in  oar  imagination  side 
by  side  ;  and  each  leans  upon  the  other.  The  minister's 
love  story  was  never  fully  told ;  some  passages  of  it 
were  too  wonderful  and  too  intimate  for  public  record. 
Margaret  Baxter,  with  her  tender,  over-passionate  nature, 
had  still  "  a  concealing  temper "  ;   she  could   not   often 

rfl  LISP? 


2  20    An  A7iglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

speak  of  her  deepest  inward  experiences,  erring,  her 
husband  thought,  through  her  morbid  dread  of  hypocrisy, 
loving  deeds  more  than  words ;  confessions  of  the  soul, 
written  by  her  at  various  times  and  printed  by  Baxter, 
were  first  seen  by  him  after  her  death  among  the 
papers  which  she  left  ;  and  in  that  most  beautiful  and 
touching  memorial  of  her  life,  the  outpouring  of  his  age, 
weakness  and  grief,  he  respected  her  temper  of  reserve 
as  to  the  full  opening  of  her  case  and  his,  and  the  many 
strange  occurrences  which  brought  it  to  pass. 

Margaret  Charlton  was  of  the  same  county  as 
Baxter,  but  of  a  higher  social  station;  she  had  wealth 
and  he  was  poor;  she  had  youth,  and  he  had  infirmity 
and  advanced  years;  and  she  saw  that  she  could  bring 
him  help.  He  insisted  that  he  should  have  nothing  of 
her  wealth,  and  that  she  should  expect  none  of  the 
time  which  his  ministerial  duties  might  require;  she 
consented,  and  they  lived  together  ''in  inviolated  love 
and  mutual  complacency."  When  he  was  carried  to  the 
common  jail  she  cheerfully  went  with  him,  and,  he 
thinks,  had  scarce  ever  a  pleasanter  time  in  her  life. 
All  worldly  affairs  were  left  in  her  hands  with  perfect 
confidence ;  she  busied  herself  to  find  or  create  spheres  for 
her  husband's  usefulness,  and  spent  her  money  in  estab- 
lishing him  as  far  as  was  possible,  under  great  difficulties 
and  restrictions,  in  his  work;  she  was  especially  proud, 
with  a  noble  kind  of  pride,  that  he  should  not  be 
dependent  on  the  liberality  of  patrons  or  of  his  people. 
She  had  an  incredibly  quick  and  penetrating  wit,  an 
incredibly  ardent  heart,  and  the  finest  and  most  delicate 
self-control.      Her   mind,    says   Baxter,    was    ''  like   the 


JereTfiy  Taylor,  Baxter  221 

treble  strings  of  a  lute,  strained  up  to  the  highest, 
sweet,  but  in  continual  danger."  The  troubles  and 
calamities  of  the  time  preyed  upon  her  sensitive  spirit, 
and  at  length  the  lute-strings  snapped.  "Perhaps  love 
and  grief,"  writes  her  husband,  "may  make  me  speak 
more  than  many  will  think  fit";  and  again;  ''I  am 
waiting  to  be  next:  the  door  is  open.  Death  will 
quickly  draw  the  veil,  and  make  us  see  how  near  we 
were  to  God  and  one  another,  and  did  not  sufficiently 
know  it."  Assuredly  through  the  past,  carried  on  into 
the  present,  she  was  always  near  him  as  an  impulse  and 
a  control,  as  the  most  loving  of  helpers,  the  most 
faithful  of  monitors.  It  was  no  posthumous  remorse 
for  things  ill  said  or  done  that  quickened  Baxter's 
sorrow  when  he  wrote  the  Breviate  of  her  life.  He  had 
little  to  remember  with  sorrow  except  a  certain  "im- 
patience with  her  impatiency,"  when  the  wranglings  of 
divines,  or  other  things  which  she  could  not  approve, 
wounded  her  charitable  spirit.  But  he  must  always 
have  had  a  touch  of  grief  in  feeling  that  he  could  not 
give  as  much  as  he  received.  "  Dear  heart,"  he  wrote 
to  her,  "  the  time  of  our  mutual  help  is  short ;  O  let  us 
use  it  accordingly ;  but  the  time  of  our  reaping  the  fruit 
of  this  and  all  holy  endeavours  and  preparatory  mercies 

will   be   endless The   Lord   forgive    my   great 

unprofitableness,  and  the  sin  that  brought  me  under  any 
disabilities  to  answer  your  earnest  and  honest  desire  of 
greater  help  than  I  afford  you,  and  help  me  yet  to  amend 
it  towards  you.  But  though  my  soul  be  faulty  and  dull, 
and  my  strength  of  nature  fail,  be  sure  that  He  will 
be  a  thousand-fold  better  to  thee,  even  here,  than  such 


222     An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

crooked,  feeble,  useless  things  as  is  thy  R.B."  She  died 
in  the  summer  of  1681,  at  the  age  of  forty-two.  Her 
knife,  say  Baxter,  was  too  keen,  and  cut  the  sheath. 

And  now  let  us  turn  to  that  passage  in  the  autobio- 
graphy in  which  Baxter  reviews  his  former  self  and 
notes  the  alterations  which  time  and  experience  and 
perhaps  also  the  decline  of  youthful  vigour  had  brought 
to  him.  There  were  losses,  but  there  were  also  gains  ; 
and  he  balanced  the  one  against  the  other.  He  felt 
that  he  had  now  less  energy,  affection,  and  fervency  in 
preaching  than  in  earlier  years,  yet  his  discourses  then, 
though  more  moving  to  his  hearers,  had  both  less 
substance  and  less  judgment  than  of  late.  His  under- 
standing was  formerly  quicker ;  now  it  is  better  furnished 
and  better  balanced.  On  reperusing  some  of  his  earlier 
writings  he  was  struck  in  certain  places  by  their  empti- 
ness and  insufficiency.  Where  he  had  thoroughly  studied 
a  subject  even  in  those  early  years  his  judgment  was  not 
deficient ;  but  many  things  he  had  studied  only  slightly 
and  by  halves,  yet  he  would  then  write  confidently,  and 
many  things  he  took  wholly  upon  trust  from  others,  so 
that  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  seemed  to  know.  "  And 
this  token  of  my  weakness  accompanied  those  my  younger 
studies,  that  I  was  very  apt  to  start  up  controversies  in 
the  way  of  my  practical  writings,  and  also  more  desirous 
to  acquaint  the  world  with  all  that  I  took  to  be  the 
truth,  and  to  assault  those  books  by  name  which  I 
thought  did  tend  to  deceive  them,  and  did  contain 
unsound  and  dangerous  doctrine."  This  was  partly, 
he  believes,  because  he  was  then  in  the  vigour  of 
his    youthful    apprehension    of   truth,    but    also    partly 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  223 

because  he  ''did  not  discern  how  much  in  most  of  our 
controversies  is  verbal,  and  upon  mutual  mistakes." 
Now  he  knows  how  seldom  men  are  convinced  against 
their  will,  and  that  nothing  so  much  hinders  the  recep- 
tion of  the  truth  as  urging  it  with  harsh  importunity 
and  falling  too  heavily  on  the  errors  of  others;  ''for 
hereby  you  engage  their  honour  in  the  business,  and 
they  defend  their  errors  as  themselves,  .  .  .  and  to 
confess  the  truth,  I  am  lately  much  prone  to  the 
contrary  extreme,  to  be  too  indifferent  what  men  hold, 
and  to  keep  my  judgment  to  myself."  He  felt  impatient, 
faultily  impatient,  he  admits,  with  the  frowardness  and 
self-conceit  of  some,  from  discussion  with  whom  he  was 
tempted  to  take  refuge  in  silence  ;  he  did  not  perhaps 
so  sensibly  bring  home  to  himself — and  this  was  a  loss 
— the  worth  of  truths  which  had  long^  found  a  dwellino-- 
place  in  his  mind.  But  on  the  other  hand  there  was  a 
gain  in  his  increased  feeling  that  a  holy  life,  founded 
upon  the  principles  of  religion  which  we  are  all  agreed 
in,  and  fusing  these  in  practice,  was  of  more  importance 
than  many  opinions.  In  his  youth  he  was  "  quickly 
past  his  fundamentals,"  and  ran  up  into  a  multitude  of 
controversies  and  was  greatly  delighted  with  metaphysical 
and  scholastic  writings;  "but  the  elder  I  grew  the  smaller 
stress  I  laid  upon  these  controversies  and  curiosities 
(though  still  my  intellect  abhorreth  confusion),  as  finding 
far  greater  uncertainties  in  them  than  I  at  first  discerned, 
and  finding  less  usefulness  comparatively,  even  where 
there  is  the  greatest  certainty."  The  creed,  the  Lord's 
prayer,  and  the  ten  commandments  seemed  now  to 
Baxter  to  contain  all  that  is  essential,  and  in  these  he 


2  24    ^^  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

found  themes  of  meditation  less  easy  to  exhaust  than 
those  suggested  by  the  school  niceties.  A  like  change 
of  mind  he  had  observed,  he  tells  us,  in  his  friend  "old 
Bishop  Ussher"  and  in  others;  and  he  would  ascribe 
it  partly  to  a  certain  decay  of  vitality,  the  inward  life 
quitting  as  in  autumn  the  leaves  and  branches  and 
drawing  down  into  the  root ;  and  partly  to  a  better 
cause — the  fact  that  experience  leads  us  to  value  things 
according  to  their  use  and  ends.  No  portion  of  true 
learning  can  be  called  useless  ;  but  the  best  learning  is 
that  which  makes  men  better  and  tends  to  make  them 
happier. 

These  are  simple  things,  easy  to  understand ;  but 
they  are  often  forgotten,  and  they  come  from  Baxter 
not  as  abstract  statements,  but  as  realities  learnt  through 
experience.  He  goes  on  to  tell  us  of  other  changes. 
In  his  younger  days  he  was  never  tempted  to  doubt  the 
truth  of  Scripture  or  of  Christianity;  all  his  doubts  and 
fears  were  concerning  his  own  salvation.  But  since  then 
his  sorest  assaults  were  on  the  other  side,  and  he  had 
certainly  apostatised,  he  says,  to  infidelity  had  he  been 
void  of  inward  experience  and  the  adhesion  of  love. 
Now  he  feels  and  sees  that  the  great  witness  to  the 
world  for  Christ  is  the  Spirit  as  known  through  the 
hearts  and  the  lives  of  good  men.  He  recognises  that 
there  are  degrees  of  belief,  and  even  with  respect  to  the 
mysteries  of  the  gospel,  whatever  men  may  pretend,  the 
subjective  certainty  cannot  go  beyond  the  objective 
evidence.  Nor  is  he  ashamed  to  acknowledge  his  want 
of  complete  assurance  as  to  many  things — "  I  am  not  so 
foolish  as  to  pretend  my  certainty  to  be  greater  than  it 


Jeremy  Taylor^  Baxter  225 

is,  merely  because  it  is  a  dishonour  to  be  less  certain." 
He  does  not  lump  all  matters  of  belief  together,  and 
swallow  them  by  a  single  act  of  faith  :  ''  My  certainty 
that  I  am  a  man  is  before  my  certainty  that  there  is  a 
God.  My  certainty  that  there  is  a  God  is  greater  than 
my  certainty  that  he  requireth  love  and  holiness  of  his 
creature.  My  certainty  of  this  is  greater  than  my 
certainty  of  the  life  of  reward  and  punishment  hereafter. 
My  certainty  of  that  is  greater  than  my  certainty  of  the 
endless  duration  of  it,  and  of  the  immortality  of  individu- 
ate souls.  My  certainty  of  the  Deity  is  greater  than 
my  certainty  of  the  Christian  faith.  My  certainty  of 
the  Christian  faith  in  its  essentials  is  greater  than  my 
certainty  of  the  perfection  and  infallibility  of  all  the 
Holy  Scriptures.  My  certainty  of  that  is  greater  than 
my  certainty  of  the  meaning  of  many  particular  texts, 
and  so  of  the  truth  of  many  particular  doctrines,  or  the 
canonicalness  of  some  certain  books."  And  accordingly 
as  Baxter  held  that  the  truths  of  natural  religion  are 
better  established  than  those  of  revealed,  the  work  of  an 
evidential  writer  should  base  itself,  he  maintains,  on 
what  is  most  clearly  ascertained. 

"  0  God,  forgive  my  sins,"  murmured  the  indefatig- 
able Ussher  on  his  death-bed,  "  especially  my  sins  of 
omission."  In  his  earlier  years  Baxter's  trouble  for  sin 
was  chiefly  for  actual  faults  of  thought,  or  word,  or 
deed ;  but  now  he  is  much  more  troubled  for  inward 
defects,  and  omission  or  want  of  the  vital  duties  or 
graces  in  the  soul.  It  seems  to  him  that  some  immor- 
alities are  less  grievous  evils  than  such  defects  as  these. 
Yet  he  does  not  set  so  much  store  as  he  once  did  on 

p 


2  26    An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

sorrow  for  sin  or  penitential  tears ;  love  of  what  is  best 
and  highest,  joy  and  praise,  he  reckons  as  more  profitable 
parts  of  spiritual  life  than  any  lamentation  over  the 
stains  upon  our  sorry  selves.  For  his  mind  has  greatly 
turned  away  from  self  and  striven  to  fix  itself  upon  out- 
ward objects  which  alter  and  elevate  the  mind  that  lives 
in  communion  with  them.  He  is  much  more  sensible 
than  formerly  of  the  breadth  and  length  and  depth  of 
the  radical  sin  of  selfishness,  and  of  the  excellency  of  a 
public  spirit,  and  of  loving  our  aeighbours  as  ourselves  ; 
and  he  is  much  more  concerned  than  formerly  about  his 
duty  to  God,  and  less  solicitous  about  God's  dealings 
with  him,  dealings  which  may  indeed  be  trusted  to 
the  Father  of  our  spirits.  He  finds  great  mutability 
in  his  own  moods,  and  places  small  confidence  in 
them ;  but  if  anything  gives  him  assurance  of  his 
own  sincerity,  it  is  constant  action  and  duty  that 
can    do   this. 

Again,  Baxter  contrasts  his  early  state  of  mind,  when 
he  knew  much  less  than  now,  but  was  much  less  aware 
of  his  ignorance — daily  delighted  by  new  discoveries 
of  truth — with  his  present  state  when  he  has  far  meaner 
thoughts  of  his  own  understanding,  and  finds  far  greater 
darkness  upon  all  things.  Formerly,  he  had  an  exalted 
opinion  of  learned  persons  and  of  books  that  professed 
much  wisdom  or  scholarship  ;  now  experience  has  con- 
strained him  against  his  will  to  recognise  that  reverend, 
learned  men  are  imperfect :  "  and  the  better  I  am 
acquainted  with  them,  the  more  I  perceive  that  we 
are  all  yet  in  the  dark  ;  and  the  more  I  am  acquainted 
with  holy  men,  that  are  all  for  heaven  and  pretend  not 


Jeremy  Taylor^  Baxter  227 

much  to  subtleties,  the  more  I  value  and  honour  them." 
As  to  books,  he  takes  them  less  on  credit  than  formerly; 
he  is  less  captivated  by  the  style,  attends  more  to  the 
matter,  and  does  not,  as  once,  accept  the  whole,  but  can 
accept  and  reject  in  the  same  author.  He  is  himself 
less  influenced  than  in  earlier  years  by  applause,  partly 
perhaps  from  having  been  glutted  and  surfeited  with  it. 
He  loves  solitude  more  than  formerly,  and  could  be 
willing  to  fly  from  the  press  of  men ;  yet,  while  he 
finds  it  easy  to  despise  earth,  it  is  not  easy  to  be  con- 
versant in  heaven.  He  sees  the  dangers  and  tempta- 
tions to  which  the  great  ones  of  the  world  are  exposed, 
and  laments  their  unhappiness  ;  he  values  more  the  life 
of  poor  labouring  men,  and  especially  the  life  of  one  that 
has  neither  poverty  nor  riches. 

In  brief,  he  perceives  more  good  and  more  evil  in  all 
men  than  heretofore  :  ''  I  see  that  good  men  are  not  so 
good  as  I  once  thought  they  were,  but  have  more  im- 
perfections. .  .  .  And  I  find  that  few  are  so  bad  as 
either  their  malicious  enemies  or  censorious  separating 
professors  do  imagine."  Accordingly,  his  sympathies 
have  widened  ;  he  cannot  limit  his  Christian  charity  to 
any  one  communion  ;  he  thinks  of  his  brother  men  in 
remote  parts  of  the  world  :  ''  Could  we  but  go  among 
Tartarians,  Turks,  and  Heathens,  and  speak  their  lan- 
guage, I  should  be  but  little  troubled  for  the  silencing 
of  eio'hteen  hundred  ministers  at  once  in  England." 
And  yet,  he  adds,  "  I  am  not  so  much  inclined  to  pass 
a  peremptory  sentence  of  damnation  upon  all  that  never 
heard  of  Christ ;  having  some  more  reason  than  I  knew 
of  before  to  think  that  God's  dealings  with  such  is  much 


2  28    An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

unknown  to  us."  As  for  nearer  neighbours,  the  "Papists," 
his  judgment  has  greatly  altered  ;  formerly  he  thought 
that  their  errors  in  the  doctrine  of  faith  were  their  most 
dangerous  mistakes :  ''  but  now  I  am  assured  that  their 
mis-expressions  and  misunderstanding  us,  with  our  mis- 
takings  of  them,  and  inconvenient  expressing  our  own 
opinions,  hath  made  the  difference  in  these  points  to 
appear  much  greater  than  they  are;  and  that  in  some 
of  them  it  is  next  to  none  at  all.  But  the  great  and 
unreconcilable  difficulties  lie  in  their  Church  tyranny 
and  usurpations,  and  in  their  great  corruptions  and 
abasement  of  God's  worship,  together  with  their  be- 
friending of  ignorance  and  vice."  Yet  he  does  not  now 
doubt  that  God  has  "  many  sanctified  ones  among  them," 
and  that  the  errors  of  such  are  like  a  conquerable  dose 
of  poison  which  nature  can  overcome. 

Baxter  would  still  labour  for  a  comprehension  among 
Protestants ;  but  he  is  less  sanguine  of  its  attainment 
than  formerly.  He  no  longer  lays  that  stress  upon  the 
external  modes  and  forms  of  worship  which  many  young 
and  ardent  spirits  do.  "  I  have  suspected,"  he  says  with 
his  characteristic  sincerity,  "  as  perhaps  the  reader  may 
do,  that  this  is  from  a  cooling  and  declining  from  my 
former  zeal  (though  the  truth  is,  I  never  much  com- 
plied with  men  of  that  mind)  ;  but  I  find  that  judgment 
and  charity  are  the  causes  of  it,  as  far  as  I  am  able  to 
discover."  He  cannot  be  so  narrow  in  his  principles  as 
to  refuse  communion  with  a  Church  on  the  ground  of 
ceremonial  differences,  and  were  he  among  the  Greeks, 
the  Lutherans,  the  Independents,  or  the  Anabaptists,  he 
would  hold  occasional  communion  with  them  as  Christians, 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  229 

if  they  would  give  him  leave.  But  he  is  farther  than 
ever  from  expecting  great  matters  of  unity,  splendour, 
or  prosperity  to  the  Church  on  earth. 

One  other  change  in  his  mind,  which  indeed  makes 
much  for  charity,  Baxter  notices  :  "  I  am  much  more 
cautious,"  he  says,  "  in  my  belief  of  history  than  hereto- 
fore." The  prodigious  lies  published  as  matters  of  fact 
in  his  own  age,  and  that  with  unblushing  confidence, 
made  him  incredulous  of  the  statements  of  past  ages, 
unless  there  were  freedom  at  the  time  to  challenge  such 
statements,  and  both  sides  had  a  hearing.  "  Therefore, 
I  confess,  I  give  but  halting  credit  to  most  histories  that 
are  written,  not  only  against  the  Albigenses  and  Wal- 
denses,  but  against  most  of  the  ancient  heretics,  who 
have  left  us  none  of  their  own  writings,  in  which  they 
speak  for  themselves ;  and  I  heartily  lament  that  the 
historical  writings  of  the  ancient  schismatics  and  heretics 
(as  they  are  called)  perished,  and  that  partiality  suffered 
them  not  to  survive,  that  we  might  have  had  more  light 
in  the  Church  affairs  of  those  times,  and  been  better 
able  to  judge  between  the  Fathers  and  them.  And  as 
I  am  prone  to  think  that  few  of  them  were  so  bad  as 
their  adversaries  made  them,  so  I  am  apt  to  think  that 
such  as  the  iSTovatians  and  Luciferians,  and  Indians,  &c., 
whom  their  adversaries  commend,  were  very  good  men, 
and  more  godly  than  most  Catholics,  however  mistaken 
in  some  one  point."  Baxter's  discreet  and  charitable 
scepticism  has  its  application  to  civil  as  well  as  to 
ecclesiastical  history.  The  lost  causes  have  not  always 
been  the  worst. 

Finally,  he  considers  some  of  the  faults  of  his  later 


230     An  Anglican  and  a  Puritan  Eirenicon 

years.  He  grieves  especially  over  any  rash  words 
uttered  to  those  who  were  near  and  dear  to  him. 
There  is  a  pathos  of  a  beautiful  kind  in  his  tender 
passion  of  remorse  :  "  When  such  are  dead,  though  we 
never  differed  in  point  of  interest  or  any  great  matter, 
every  sour  or  cross  provoking  word  which  I  gave  them, 
maketh  me  almost  unreconcilable  with  myself,  and  tells 
me  how  repentance  brought  some  of  old  to  pray  to  the 
dead  whom  they  had  wronged,  to  forgive  them  in  the 
hurry  of  their  passion."  He  perceives  in  himself,  and 
mentions  by  way  of  penitent  confession,  that  in  his 
controversial  writings  he  has  even  of  late  been  much 
inclined  to  words  that  are  too  keen  and  provoking. 
It  may  partly  be  that  age  has  soured  his  spirit,  partly 
that  much  thought  and  study  has  wearied  him,  and 
rendered  him  impatient,  partly  that  he  revolts  from 
the  flattering  humour  of  the  time  ;  but  doubtless  the 
principal  cause  is,  that  being  accustomed  to  address 
common,  ignorant,  and  ungodly  people,  who  need  the 
plainest  and  keenest  language,  he  has  acquired  a  habit 
which  is  liable  to  abuse :  ''I  repent  of  it,  and  wish 
all  over-sharp  passages  were  expunged  from  my  writ- 
ings, and  ask  forgiveness  of  God  and  man."  In 
truth,  he  cares  now  less  than  ever  for  disputation, 
and  most  approves  a  learning  or  a  teaching  way  of 
converse. 

Such,  reduced  from  its  large  dimensions  in  the  auto- 
biography, is  Baxter's  "  Eirenicon."  It  is  no  array  of 
intellectual  formulae,  no  piece  of  moving  rhetoric ;  it  is 
a  simple  record  of  personal  experience,  an  account  of  the 
growth  of  character.     When  these  pages  were  written 


Jeremy  Taylor,  Baxter  231 

the  close  of  Baxter's  life  was  still  remote,  and  he  had 
much  work,  as  a  Christian  teacher  and  as  a  great 
Englishman,  still  to  do.  But  he  had  already  learnt 
the  deepest  lessons  of  life,  and  was  ready  to  depart. 
"  Ripeness,"  in  Hamlet's  phrase,  "  is  all." 


VIII 
JOHN    BUNYAN 


To  consider  Bunyan  merely  as  a  representative  of  Eng- 
lish Puritanism  or  Nonconformity  in  the  second  half 
of  the  seventeenth  century  would  be  to  do  an  injustice 
to  his  genius  and  his  work.  Had  he  interpreted  only 
what  was  peculiar  to  a  special  period  and  a  particular 
phase  of  religious  thought  and  feeling,  what  he  has 
written  might  still  be  valuable  as  a  document  for  his- 
torical students,  but  it  could  not  be  a  living  power 
with  successive  generations  of  readers  of  every  class  and 
in  almost  every  region  of  the  globe.  What  gives  vitality 
to  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress "  is  not  its  Puritanism  as 
such,  but  rather  its  Christian  spirit  and  more  than  this 
its  profound  humanity.  Yet  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  " 
is  a  characteristic  product  of  Puritan  faith  and  feeling ; 
and  to  bring  this  fact  home  to  ourselves  we  have  only 
to  imagine  what  Bunyan  would  have  been  if  all  his 
life  had  been  passed  as  that  of  a  member  of  the  Anglican 
communion  ;  or,  rather,  we  have  to  put  the  question 
to  ourselves — "  Would  an  Anglican  Bunyan  have  been 
possible  ? "  If  we  desire  to  see  a  typical  representative 
of  Anglican  piety  in  Bunyan's  century  we  may  find  such 

a  representative  in   George  Herbert.     It  is  a  beautiful 

232 


John  Bunyan  233 

type  of  religious  temper,  ardent  withiu  appointed  bounds, 
spiritual,  and  finding  in  forms  and  ceremonies  an  aid 
to  spiritual  life,  exalted  without  extravagance,  regardful 
not  only  of  holiness  but  of  the  visible  beauty  of  holiness, 
delicate,  pure,  not  driven  to  passionate  extremes,  not 
the  prey  of  intolerable  terrors  and  blissful  raptures  ; 
a  type  of  piety  as  it  lives  and  moves  in  an  organised 
and  cultivated  community,  with  a  high  tradition,  and 
making  use  of  all  those  adjuncts  to  the  inward  life 
which  are  afforded  by  habit  and  rite  and  emblem,  those 
regular  means  of  relieving  and  systematising  the  emo- 
tions, those  calculated  channels  and  aqueducts  which 
irrigate  and  refresh  the  soul.  Gracious  flower  in  the 
garden  of  the  Master,  we  are  not  unmindful  of  its 
comeliness  or  its  fragrance. 

In  such  a  community  there  is  reasonable  scope  for 
the  play  of  individual  feeling ;  yet  individual  feeling 
is  directed  and  controlled  by  a  general  method  and 
order.  In  the  smaller  religious  communities  a  public 
opinion  exists,  which  is  stricter  in  reference  to  conduct, 
and  may  even  result  in  a  close  and  tyrannous  surveil- 
lance ;  but  in  the  drama  of  the  private  passions  of 
religion  there  is  often  an  intenser  energy  ;  religion  is 
less  of  a  complex,  organised  institution,  and  more  of  a 
personal  unique  experience  ;  the  relations  of  the  soul 
to  God  are  less  determined  in  appointed  ways  ;  hence 
wilder  aberrations  become  possible  ;  but  also  there  may 
be  an  incandescence  of  the  inward  life,  unallayed  in  its 
glow,  a  flame  of  devout  passion  wdiich  touches  heights 
and  depths  beyond  what  can  be  safely  approached  in 
forms  suited  for  the  general  and  habitual  uses  of  religion. 


2  34  John  Bunyan 

In  a  great  and  comprehensive  community  a  place  is 
found  for  such  nobly  intemperate  souls  in  some  special 
Order,  which  converts  the  enfant  "perdu  of  piety  into 
the  leader  of  a  forlorn  hope. 

All  that  is  best  and  most  characteristic  in  Bunyan  s 
writings  proceeds  from  that  inward  drama,  in  which  the 
actors  were  three — God,  Satan,  and  a  solitary  human 
soul.  If  external  influences  from  events  or  men  affected 
his  spirit,  they  came  as  nuncios  or  messengers  from  God 
or  from  the  Evil  One.  Institutions,  churches,  ordinances, 
rites,  ceremonies,  could  help  him  little,  or  not  at  all. 
The  journey  from  the  City  of  Destruction  to  the  Celestial 
City  must  be  undertaken  on  a  special  summons  by  each 
man  for  himself  alone  ;  if  a  companion  join  him  on  the 
way,  it  lightens  the  trials  of  the  road  ;  but  of  the  com- 
panions '^ach  one  is  an  individual  pilgrim,  who  has 
started  on  a  great  personal  adventure,  and  who  as  he 
enters  the  dark  river  must  undergo  his  particular  ex- 
periences of  hope  or  fear?)  Yet  through  what  is  most 
personal  in  each  of  us  we  come  upon  the  common 
soul  ;  let  any  man  record  faithfully  his  most  private 
experiences  in  any  of  the  great  affairs  of  life,  and  his 
words  awaken  in  other  souls  innumerable  echoes ;  the 
deepest  community  is  found  not  in  institutions,  or 
corporations,  or  Churches,  but  in  the  secrets  of  the 
solitary  heart.  And  because  Bunyan,  rich  as  his  nature 
was  in  our  common  humanity,  put  into  his  writings  the 
central  facts  of  his  personal  life,  his  books  are  not  for 
himself  alone,  but  for  all  men  of  like  passions,  who 
must  each  tread  for  himself  the  same  arduous  way. 

Must    tread    the    same    way  ;     but    not     necessarily 


John  Biinyan  235 

in  the  same  manner.  Bunyan's  religious  history,  re- 
corded in  his  wonderful  autobiography  "Grace  abound- 
ing to  the  Chief  of  Sinners,"  may  be  repeated  age  after 
age  in  its  essentials,  for  it  is  the  history  of  a  soul 
struoforlinor  from  darkness  to  light,  from  confusion  to 
clearness,  from  self-division  to  unity,  from  weakness 
to  strength,  from  wretchedness  to  peace  and  joy  ;  but 
if  truths  of  the  seventeenth  century  remain  truths  in 
the  nineteenth,  they  operate  under  different  conditions  ; 
they  mingle  with  new  elements  in  our  minds ;  they 
require  new  adjustments ;  they  must  be  translated  into 
modern  speech.  And  who  will  say  that  in  the  religious 
passion  of  an  Englishman  of  the  mid-years  of  the 
seventeenth  century  the  parallax  of  truth  was  not  con- 
siderable ?  who  will  assert  that  gross  mists  arising  from 
his  own  brain  did  not  cloud  and  distort  the  light  ?  If 
the  deep  realities  of  Puritanism  remain — its  seriousness, 
its  ardour,  its  plea  for  the  loins  girt  and  the  lamp  lit — 
yet  its  exact  modes  of  thought  and  feeling,  which  did 
their  work  and  have  been  replaced  by  others,  can  no 
more  be  revived  than  its  exact  forms  of  speech.  ''  Grace 
Abounding "  may  truly  be  described  as  an  awakening 
book,  and  the  moment  we  are  really  awake  we  perceive 
that  if  we  are  to  attempt  a  solution  of  the  problems 
and  a  conquest  of  the  difficulties  which  beset  us,  we 
must  apply  ourselves  to  the  task  with  Bunyan's  resolution 
indeed,  but  not  with  Bunyan's  intelligence. 

The  writings  of  John  Bunyan  fill  some  thousands 
of  large  and  closely  printed  pages.  The  strength  of  his 
heart  and  mind  are  adequately  felt  in  four  works — 
his   religious    autobiography,    "  Grace  Abounding,"   the 


236  John  Bunyan 

*'  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  the  "  Holy  War,"  and  the  ''  Life 
and  Death  of  Mr  Badman."  Among  these  four  there 
is  a  marked  inequality  ;  the  "  Holy  War"  is  an  allegory 
rather  manufactured, — manufactured  with  admirable 
skill — than  inspired ;  the  "  Life  and  Death  of  Mr 
Badman  "  is  a  religious  tract  of  portentous  size  put  into 
the  form  of  a  narrative.  These  are  remarkable  books  ; 
but  the  one  is  an  ingenious  construction ;  the  other 
is  a  study  of  the  vices  of  middle  class  English  life  in 
Bunyan's  day,  turned  to  purposes  of  warning  and  edifica- 
tion. Neither  of  them  is  an  immediate  living  experience ; 
neither  of  them  is  an  inspired  vision.  But  these  are 
the  words  that  describe  aright  the  other  two  books 
which  form  the  most  vital  part  of  Bunyan's  work. 
''  Grace  Abounding "  is  a  fragment  of  life  ;  we  touch, 
in  reading  it,  a  quivering  human  heart ;  the  ''  Pilgrim's 
Progress"  is  a  vision  of  a  man  of  genius,  the  "Divina 
Commedia  "  of  Puritanism. 

II 

"  Grace  Abounding,"  written  while  Bunyan  was  in 
Bedford  gaol,  was  published  in  1666,  when  he  was 
thirty-eight  years  old.  It  is  a  work  of  the  writer's 
maturity,  not  a  collection  of  the  reminiscences  of  old 
age.  The  story  which  it  tells  was  comparatively  recent; 
nothing  in  it  is  blurred  or  faded.  Bunyan  died  at  the 
age  of  sixty,  but  if  he  had  lived  to  be  fourscore,  and  his 
natural  powers  had  remained  with  him,  he  could  never 
have  spoken  vaguely  or  faintly  about  events  in  the  life 
of  his  soul  which  had  so  deeply  branded  themselves  into 
his   memory.      The    first    characteristic   of  the   book  is 


John  Bunyan  237 

assuredly  its  intense  realisation  of  things  unseen. 
Nothing  else  by  comparison  was  actual  to  Bunyan ; 
robust,  observant,  shrewd,  kindly,  humorous  as  he  was, 
the  external  world  when  set  beside  the  invisible  became 
to  him  as  a  shadow  or  a  dream.  Heaven  and  hell  were 
at  least  as  substantial  for  him  as  the  roads  and  the 
Bedford  field-paths  trodden  by  his  feet.  He  carried  his 
English  plainness  and  energy  into  his  dealings  with  the 
affairs  of  eternity.  Our  few  mortal  years  on  earth, 
overw^helmingly  important  because  they  determine  the 
issues  of  life  and  death,  were,  as  regards  all  else,  lost  in 
the  abyss  of  unending  joy  or  anguish.  He  must  square 
his  accounts  with  God  as  a  piece  of  practical  business, 
awful  business  indeed,  but  one  that  must  be  settled 
somehow  on  business  principles.  He,  as  truly  as  the 
American  idealist,  but  in  his  own  positive  British  way, 
must  hitch  his  waggon  to  a  star. 

Dormant  genius  in  youth  is  often  awakened  by  the 
love  of  a  woman.  Bunyan  was  capable  of  deep  and 
tender  affection.  "  You  must  think  that  my  wife  and 
poor  children  were  very  dear  unto  me,"  Christian  con- 
fesses ;  yet  having  a  wife  he  must  needs  be  as  those 
who  have  none.  We  remember  Bunyan's  attachment 
to  his  blind  child.  He  regarded  with  honour  that 
mother  in  Israel,  Christiana :  he  loved  his  own  Mercy 
for  her  early  devotion  to  the  pilgrim's  way  and  to 
charitable  works  ;  he  felt  a  manly  protectiveness 
towards  Mr  Despondency's  daughter,  whose  name  was 
Much-Afraid.  But  he  could  not  abandon  his  heart  to 
any  creature  of  earth.  Perhaps  he  feared  his  own  ruder 
passions.       From   his   first   conversion    God   made   him 


238  John  Bunyan 

"  shy  of  women  "  ;  it  was  a  rare  thing  to  see  him  carry- 
it  pleasant  towards  any  one  of  them  :  "  The  common 
salutation  of  a  woman  I  abhor ;  'tis  odious  to  me  in 
whomsoever  I  see  it.  Their  company  alone,  I  cannot 
away  with.  T  seldom  so  much  as  touch  a  woman's 
hand,  for  I  think  these  things  are  not  so  becoming  me." 
And  he  noticed  with  disapproval  —  Butler  has  said 
nothing  more  severe — that  others  when  they  gave  the 
holy  kiss  made  baulks,  saluting  the  most  handsome  and 
letting  the  ill-favoured  go.  For  Bunyan  the  difference 
between  human  beings  was  of  another  kind  than  their 
good  looks  or  their  uncomeliness — they  were  inhabitants 
of  the  City  of  Destruction,  or  were  on  their  way  to  the 
Celestial  City.  The  nobler  aspects  of  human  passion 
he  did  not  attempt  to  interpret ;  from  one  of  the  most 
inspiring  motives  of  imaginative  genius  he  was  cut  off. 

Public  affairs,  which  rouse  the  ambition  of  manhood, 
left  Bunyan  almost  untouched.  As  a  youug  man  he 
served  for  a  short  time  in  the  army,  doubtless  on  the 
side  of  the  Parliament ;  but,  though  his  marchings  and 
counter-marches  may  have  served  to  give  exactitude  to 
his  account  of  the  military  evolutions  of  Emmanuel's 
captains  in  the  "  Holy  War,"  he  had  no  enthusiam  for 
the  good  old  cause  ;  he  was  probably  a  reluctant  fighter, 
who  would  not  of  his  own  accord  choose  to  cut  short  a 
human  life,  whether  of  saint  or  sinner  ;  and  his  most 
vivid  recollection  of  that  episode  of  his  career  was  that 
on  one  occasion  he  was  himself  by  special  Providence 
preserved  from  death  at  a  time  when  death  would  have 
meant  the  eternal  perdition  of  his  soul.  At  a  later 
date,  in    Restoration    days,    whatever   interest    Bunyan 


John  Bunyan  239 

took  in  public  affairs  seems  to  have  been  connected 
with  the  freedom  of  worship  of  God's  suffering  faithful, 
the  Nonconformists  ;  even  for  them  he  would  not  pur- 
chase indulgence  at  the  price  of  an  accommodation  with 
Giant  Pope.  The  degradation  of  his  country  in  the 
councils  of  Europe  counted  as  nothing  with  Bunyan 
in  comparison  with  the  ruin  of  a  single  soul.  Pre- 
eminently English  in  the  character  of  his  genius,  he 
was  lacking  in  an  Englishman's  patriotic  pride  or 
shame. 

The  word  ''  otherworldliness "  is  sometimes  used  as 
a  term  of  reproach  for  such  a  temper  as  that  of  Bunyan ; 
one  who  devotes  himself  to  the  concerns  of  this  earthly 
sphere  is  worldly  ;  is  it  not  the  same  self-interested 
habit  of  mind,  fastening  on  the  affairs  of  futurity,  which 
creates  such  alarms  and  hopes,  such  agonies  and  raptures 
as  beset  the  mind  of  Bunyan  ?  And  thus  we  are  given 
to  understand  that  there  is  little  real  difference  between 
the  man  who  is  absorbed  in  the  business  of  time  and 
him  who  is  devoted  to  the  interests  of  eternity,  except 
perhaps  that  the  latter  is  possessed  of  a  superior  kind 
of  selfishness.  Such  a  criticism  as  this  may  contain  a 
just  censure  of  the  fastings  and  macerations  of  a  hermit 
in  the  Thebaid  ;  yet  even  he  may  believe  that  he  serves 
mankind  by  his  prayers,  that  a  retreat  from  the  evil 
world  is  necessary  to  preserve  the  regenerating  ideal 
of  sanctity,  or  that,  in  view  of  the  endless  tasks  of 
eternity,  his  brief  days  of  mortal  life  may  be  well  spent 
in  processes  of  self-imposed  discipline  and  education. 
For  one  who  firmly  grasps  this  earth,  and  dismisses 
as   a   dream   the    life    beyond    the    grave,    worldliness. 


240  John  Bunyan 

pursued  on  his  own  behalf  and  that  of  his  fellows, 
is  a  virtue.  This  is  to  live,  at  least  for  an  hour, 
wisely,  with  his  loins  girt  aud  his  lamp  burning. 
He  does  well  to  drink  a  deep  draught  of  existence 
while  it  is  still  possible.  And  for  one  who  believes 
in  a  life  eternal,  "  otherworldliness,"  pursued  vigor- 
ously on  his  own  behalf  and  that  of  his  fellows,  is  a 
virtue  ;  it  is  at  once  the  highest  prudence  and  the 
noblest  charity.  Whoever — was  it  Charles  Kingsley  ? 
— spoke  scornfully  of  the  anxiety  to  "  save  one's  own 
dirty  soul "  indulged  in  an  idle  flourish  of  rhetoric. 
St  Paul,  in  a  passion  of  charity,  wished  that  he  were 
accursed  from  Christ  for  his  brethren  ;  but  the  very 
words  imply  that  what  he  was  prepared  to  surrender, 
in  the  heroism  of  self-abandonment,  was  an  inestimable 
possession.  Bunyan,  like  St  Paul,  was  no  merely 
egoistic  devotee  ;  he  was  abundant  in  labours  for 
others ;  his  years  of  imprisonment  were  endured  be- 
cause he  could  not  consent  to  cease  from  those  labours. 
But  he  felt  that  he  could  not  direct  others  on  the 
pilgrimage,  and  do  the  work  of  a  Great-heart,  until 
he  himself  was  acquainted  with  the  way.  For  one 
who  accepted  Bunyan's  premises,  it  was  right  and  it 
was  inevitable  to  be  profoundly  concerned  about  future 
bliss  or  woe.  Imagine  any  man  of  serious  and  ardent 
nature,  imagine  Bunyan,  or  read  his  autobiography, 
and  see  him,  possessed  by  an  assurance — though  not 
undisturbed  now  and  again  by  cold  spasms  of  doubt — 
that  heaven  was  a  veritable  fact,  that  hell  was  real 
as  his  own  soul ;  on  the  one  hand  everlasting  felicity, 
purity,  light,  on  the  other  everlasting  torture,  darkness, 


John  Bunyan  241 

and  gnashing  of  teeth ;  on  this  side  the  presence  of 
God  and  of  his  shining  ones  for  ever,  on  that  the 
perpetual  companionship  of  devils  and  the  damned ; 
imagine  him  aware  of  the  fragility  of  human  life — 
a  breathing,  sensitive,  passionate  human  creature,  sus- 
pended by  a  thread  between  paradise  and  the  pit  ; 
imagine  this,  and  applaud  him  for  the  fervour  of  his 
otherworldliness.  ^ 

Such  was  the  situation ;  his  own  soul  overwhelmed 
by  blood  guiltiness  ;  death  imminent,  judgment  certain  ; 
God  inviting  him,  and  a  thousand  devils  waiting  to 
lay  hold  upon  him.  What  could  Bunyan  do  but  put 
his  fingers  in  his  ears  to  shut  out  all  voices  of  earth, 
refuse  to  look  behind  him,  and  run  forward  with  the 
cry  ''  Life,  life,  eternal  life."  But  the  way  that 
stretched  before  him  was  neither  short  nor  smooth.  If 
the  most  striking  characteristic  of  "  Grace  Abounding  " 
is  its  vivid  realisation  of  the  unseen,  hardly  less  im- 
pressive is  the  sense  it  leaves  with  us  of  the  difficulty 
and  uncertainty  of  the  writer's  progress.  He  was 
like  a  swimmer  making  for  shore  in  a  heavy  sea, 
beset  by  cross  and  contrary  currents.  Now  he  strikes 
out  with  resolute  arms,  and  makes  a  slight  advance  ; 
instantly  he  is  overwhelmed  by  some  violent  wave, 
is  buffetted  hither  and  thither,  is  swept  sideways,  or 
is   caught   by    some   refluent    surge    and    hurried    back 

1  In  "The  Saint's  Everlasting  Rest "  (I.  vi,)  Baxter  considers  the  ques- 
tion •'  Whether  to  make  salvation  our  end  be  not  mercenary  or  legal  ? " 
"  It  is  properly  mercenary,"  he  answers,  "  when  we  expect  it  as  wages  for 
work  done  .  .  .  Otherwise  it  is  only  such  a  mercenariness  as  Christ 
commandeth.  For  consider  what  this  end  is — it's  the  fniition  of 
God  in  Christ,  and  if  seeking  Christ  be  mercenary,  I  desire  to  be 
30  mercenary." 

Q 


242  John  Bunyan 

against  his  utmost  effort.  All  the  time  Bunyan's 
mind  was  working  terribly ;  yet  it  seems  as  if  no 
advance  were  made.  In  some  records  of  spiritual 
experience  we  read  of  an  immediate  transit  from 
darkness  to  light ;  and  who  that  has  an  open  mind 
for  facts  would  doubt  the  reality  of  sudden  conversion 
any  more  than  he  would  doubt  the  reality  of  love 
at  first  sight  ?  We  read  in  other  lives  of  a  steadfast 
progress  towards  good.  St  Teresa  could  say  "  This 
attainment  is  at  present  beyond  my  reach  ;  but  with 
the  aid  of  discipline  and  Divine  grace,  twelve  months 
hence  I  shall  be  able  to  do  things  that  are  now 
impossible."  She  knew  how  to  labour  and  to  wait  ; 
she  knew  how  to  turn  to  her  advantage  a  season  of 
aridity.  With  Bunyan,  during  the  period  of  which 
he  has  given  us  an  account  it  was  otherwise  ;  we  may 
call  the  whole  process  of  his  conversion,  if  we  please, 
a  crisis ;  but  it  was  a  crisis  prolonged  over  what 
seemed  long  ages  of  agony.  Doubtless  from  first  to 
last  he  was  making  advance ;  but  he  could  not  reckon 
on  it  for  an  hour;  he  was  the  victim  of  Divine  grace, 
the  puppet  of  Satanic  temptation. 

This  resulted  in  part  from  the  undisciplined  violence 
of  his  emotions  and  his  imagination.  When  he  wrote 
the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress "  Bunyan  was  master  of  his 
imaginative  power ;  the  visions  which  came  to  him 
were  controlled  and  ordered ;  when  he  underwent  the 
experiences  related  in  ''Grace  Abounding"  his  imagina- 
tion mastered  him.  His  fears  and  hopes  haled  him 
this  way  or  that ;  his  visions  attacked  him  as  if  they 
had   an    objective    life ;    they    were    of    the    nature    of 


John  Bunyan  243 

an  obsession.  One  Sunday,  in  the  midst  of  a  game 
at  cat,  a  voice  suddenly  darted  from  heaven  into  his 
soul,  uttering  the  words,  ''  Wilt  thou  leave  thy  sins 
and  go  to  heaven  or  have  thy  sins  and  go  to  hell  ? " 
When  at  his  favourite  recreation  of  bell-ringing  in 
the  steeple-house,  the  thought  came  quickly  ''  How 
if  one  of  the  bells  should  fall  ? " ;  and  then  ''  How 
if  the  steeple  itself  should  fall  ? "  and  he  dared  not 
stand  there  any  longer  but  was  forced  to  flee.  Doubt- 
ing whether  he  had  faith,  as  he  walked  between  Elstow 
and  Bedford,  he  felt  that  he  must  put  the  vital  question 
to  an  immediate  test,  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  de- 
termining the  matter  by  the  success  or  failure  of  an 
experiment  in  the  miraculous  :  "  I  must  say  to  the 
puddles  that  were  in  the  horsepads  Be  dry  and  to 
the  dry  places  Be  you  the  puddles."  The  words 
''  Simon,  Simon,  Satan  hath  desired  to  have  you " 
sounded  within  his  soul,  and  were  called  after  him 
so  distinctly  that  he  turned  his  head  to  see  the 
speaker.  He  compared  himself  in  his  temptations 
to  a  child  whom  some  gipsy  has  taken  up  under 
her  apron  and  is  carrying  from  friend  and  country  : 
"Kick  sometimes  I  did,  and  also  shriek  and  cry,  and 
yet  I  was  as  bound  in  the  wings  of  the  temptation, 
and  the  wind  would  carry  me  away."  With  a  horrible 
fascination  he  longed,  as  it  were,  to  precipitate  himself 
to  destruction,  so  to  foreclose  all  uncertainty,  by  sinning 
the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  was  often  ready 
to  clap  his  hand  to  his  chin  to  hold  his  mouth  from 
opening,  or  to  leap  with  his  head  downwards  into  some 
muck-hill     hole     to    keep    his    mouth    from    speaking. 


244  John  Bunyan 

In  prayer  he  was  assailed  by  the  Tempter,  who  dealt 
with  his  victim  in  the  way  of  scornful  grotesquerie, 
presenting  to  his  fancy  the  form  of  a  bush,  a  bull, 
a  besom,  and  bidding  him  pray  to  these.  The  direst 
of  his  trials  was  the  terrible  suggestion  that  as  Esau 
sold  his  birth-right  for  a  mess  of  pottage,  so  should 
he  sell  the  Christ  whom  he  had  found.  The  words 
''Sell  him,  sell  him,  sell  him,"  echoed  through  his 
heart  for  hours  together,  and  in  opposing  the  tempta- 
tion, "  my  very  body,"  he  says,  ''  would  be  put  into 
action  or  motion,  by  way  of  pushing  or  thrusting 
with  my  hands  or  elbows,  still  answering,  as  fast 
as  the  destroyer  said  '  Sell  him,'  '  I  will  not,  I  will 
not,  I  will  not,  I  will  not,  no,  not  for  thousands, 
thousands,  thousands  of  worlds'."  His  soul  was  like 
a  broken  vessel,  driven  as  with  the  winds — "  I  was 
but  as  those  that  jostle  against  the  rocks,  more  broken, 
scattered,  and  rent." 

Looking  back,  when  he  wrote  the  ''Pilgrim's  Progress," 
Bunyan  thought  that  fear  tends  much  to  men's  good  at 
their  beginning  to  go  on  pilgrimage.  But  fear  has  its 
special  risks.  There  was  one  Temporary,  a  forward 
man  at  one  time  in  religion,  who  often  had  tears  in  his 
eyes,  but  now  a  backslider  ;  his  conscience  was  awakened 
by  the  terrors  of  hell,  but  his  mind  was  not  changed  by 
the  desire  for  heaven  for  its  own  sake ;  the  fear  of 
damnation  chilled  ;  hardness  of  heart  was  left  behind  ; 
and  so  the  last  state  of  that  man  was  worse  than  the 
first. 

During  these  trials  Bunyan  was  in  essentials  a 
solitary,    or     in     company    with     only     God     and    the 


John  Bunyan  245 

Destroyer.  If  external  influences  reached  him,  they 
were  seized  by  the  forces  of  his  own  soul,  and  were 
converted  into  part  of  the  secret,  inward  drama.  The 
parson  preached  against  Sabbath  desecration,  and 
Bunyau  became  a  prey  to  the  alarms  of  conscience. 
A  woman  of  loose  life  reproached  him  for  his  profane 
oaths,  and  instantly  he  stood  in  shame,  not  before  her  but 
before  the  God  of  heaven  :  ''  hanging  down  my  head,  I 
wished  with  all  my  heart  I  might  be  a  little  child 
again,  that  my  father  might  learn  me  to  speak  without 
this  wicked  way  of  swearing."  Three  or  four  poor 
women  sitting  in  the  sun,  were  overheard  by  Bunyan 
while  they  talked  about  the  things  of  God,  speaking  of 
the  new  birth  as  if  joy  made  them  speak,  and  he  felt 
his  own  heart  begin  to  shake.  Now  and  again  he  tried 
to  break  his  mind  to  humble  folk  of  Bedford,  and  they 
brought  him  as  a  counsellor  holy  Mr  Gifford,  but 
Bunyan  seemed  only  to  grow  worse  and  worse.  The 
people  of  God  would  pity  him,  and  tell  him  of  the 
promises ;  "  but  they  had  as  good  have  told  me  that  I 
must  reach  the  sun  with  my  fingers  as  have  bidden  me 
receive  or  rely  upon  the  promise."  If  he  fell  into  the 
slough  of  Despond,  ''  whither  the  scum  and  filth  that 
attends  conviction  for  sin  doth  continually  run,"  no 
man  whose  name  was  Help  came  to  pluck  him  out. 

In  truth  Bunyan's  case  was  too  complex  to  be  dealt 
with  successfully  by  the  spiritual  physicians  of  Bedford 
nonconformity.  And  we  may  doubt  whether  a  nineteenth- 
century  pathologist  could  have  served  him  effectually 
with  modern  therapeutics.  It  is  more  interesting  to 
conjecture  how  it  would  have  fared  with  Bunyan  had  he 


246  John  Bunyan 

come  under  the  influence  of  some  wise  old  Catholic 
director,  a  master  of  the  learning  of  the  confessional, 
skilled  in  the  secrets  of  the  human  heart,  severe  yet 
gentle,  bold  yet  full  of  discretion.  Such  a  director 
would  hardly  have  attempted  to  stem  the  tide  of 
Bunyan's  passions,  but  he  might  have  diverted  some 
of  the  current  into  a  course  of  discipline,  and  so  have 
eased  for  a  time  the  onset  and  turbulence  of  the  flood. 
Yet  it  may  have  been  better  that  Bunyan  should  work 
his  own  way  to  clearness  and  to  calm  after  the  strife. 
Certain  it  is  that  Mr  Worldly- wiseman  would  have 
made  the  case  only  tenfold  worse  ;  nor  could  the  fair 
speeches  of  that  pretty  young  man,  his  son,  whose  name 
is  Civility,  have  comforted  the  pilgrim's  agonised  heart. 
The  burden 'Would  but  have  seemed  mure  crushing,  and 
flashes  of  fire  issuing  from  the  hill  would  have-  made 
the  sufferer's  heart  tremble  within  him. 

Macaulay,  sane  and  strong  for  the  generous  uses  of 
earth  yet  not  quite  a  sure  searcher  of  spirits,  attempts 
to  gauge  the  actual  dimensions  of  Bunyan's  burden,  and 
finds  that  after  all  it  was  not  so  very  bulky ;  to  a 
reasonable  wayfarer  it  need  not  have  proved  oppressive. 
The  honest  tinker  was  not  vicious  ;  he  married  when 
young  and  was  a  faithful  husband  ;  he  was  quickly 
cured  of  swearing ;  bell-ringing,  and  playing  at  hockey 
on  Sundays  were  his  worst  offences.  Why  should  he 
have  brought  railing  accusations  against  himself?  On 
the  whole  Bunyan  might  have  been  moderately  com- 
fortable. But  he  was  ignorant  and  excitable,  and  he 
lived  in  an  age  of  excitement.  The  old  director  whom 
we  have  imagined,  Father  Discretion  or  Father  Experi- 


John  Bunyan  247 

ence,  would  not  have  spoken  thus.  He  would  have 
known  the  difference  between  measuring  sin  from 
without  and  discovering  unworthiness  in  the  inward 
parts.  He  would  have  known  that  the  depth  of  shadow 
is  proportioned  to  the  brightness  of  the  light ;  that  the 
consciousness  of  our  own  abjectness  and  defilement  is 
inexpressibly  deepened  by  our  apprehension  of  a 
righteousness  and  purity  above  and  beyond  our  poor 
attainment.  Undoubtedly  it  is  part  of  the  duty  of  a 
biographer  of  Bunyan  to  show  that  he  was  far  from 
being  an  outrageous  reprobate  ;  such  a  reprobate  would 
probably  not  have  suffered  from  Bunyan's  griefs.  Un- 
doubtedly Bunyan 's  religious  perturbation  was  extreme  ; 
but  we  interpret  the  drama  of  his  soul  in  the  poorest 
and  shallowest  way  if  we  ascribe  the  vividness  of  his 
sense  of  sin  to  excitement  in  an  excitable  age. 

Much  of  Bunyan's  torturing  alarm,  but  also  much  of 
his  blessedness,  many  accesses  of  sudden  joy,  came  from 
the  manner  in  which  texts  from  the  Bible  fastened  upon 
his  imagination  and  his  feelings.  He  had  not  learnt  to 
think  of  the.  books  of  Scripture  as  pieces  of  Hebrew 
literature  to  be  approached  in  a  critical  spirit.  He  had 
not  learnt  to  regard  them  as  utterances  of  the  highest 
moral  genius  of  humanity.  Nor  did  he  attenuate  the 
idea  of  inspiration  to  some  vague  and  wandering 
luminosity.  For  Bunyan  the  Bible  from  cover  to 
cover  was  the  authentic  voice  of  God.  It  was  a  living 
power  able  to  dart  forth  terrors  or  comfort.  That 
drama  of  the  inner  life,  in  which  the  actors  were  God, 
Satan,  and  a  human  soul,  was  a  drama  in  which  magic 
played   a  part,  and    the    talisman    instinct   with    firiest 


248  John  B  tiny  an 

force  was  the  Bible.  Bunyan  was  the  martyr,  but  also 
the  glorified  child,  of  Puritanic  scripturalism.  He  did 
not  ask  the  doctors  or  the  Church  to  interpret  the  dark 
sayings  of  the  Divine  word  ;  they  leaped  out  upon  him, 
now  like  angels  waving  swords  of  flame,  now  like 
winged  messengers  of  consolation.  At  one  season  of 
gloom  the  sentence  fell  with  weight  upon  his  spirit 
"Did  ever  any  trust  in  God  and  were  confounded?" 
Blessed  words  !  and  he  turned  to  search  for  them  in  his 
Bible.  He  could  not  find  them  ;  yet  still  they  abode 
upon  him.  After  about  a  year  he  lighted  upon  the 
sentence,  not  in  the  Bible,  but  alas  !  in  the  Apocrypha, 
at  which  he  confesses  he  was  daunted.  In  great 
distress  he  feared  that  the  day  of  grace  might  be  past, 
or  at  least  that  God  had  already  reckoned  up  the 
number  of  his  elect  in  Bedford  ;  but  the  words,  '*  And 
yet  there  is  room "  broke  in  upon  his  mind,  and  they 
were  sweet  words  to  him.  The  terror  assailed  him  that 
he  was  predestinated  to  reprobation  ;  but  the  text  of  a 
sermon  which  he  heard,  "  Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my 
love,"  kindled  in  his  spirit;  "thou  art  my  love  "  sang 
itself  over  and  over  in  his  heart,  so  that  he  could  not 
tell  how  to  contain  till  he  got  home  :  "  I  thought  I 
could  have  spoken  of  his  love  and  of  his  mercy  to  me 
to  the  very  crows  that  sat  upon  the  ploughed  lands 
before  me."  Doubts  that  his  zeal  would  soon  be 
quenched  caused  him  icy  shivers  ;  but  he  had  a  sweet 
glance  from  the  fifth  of  second  Corinthians,  with  hints, 
and  touches,  and  short  visits  from  other  words  of 
comfort — "  only  they  lasted  not  long,  but  like  to 
Peter's  sheet  of  a  sudden  were  caught  up  from   me  to 


John  Bunyan  249 

heaven  again."  For  some  time  he  was  under  the 
horrible  apprehension  that  he  had  committed  the  un- 
pardonable sin,  and  was  an  uglier  man  than  Judas. 
Bodily  pain  afflicted  him ;  he  felt  as  if  his  breast-bone 
would  have  split  asunder ;  and  this  perhaps  was  the 
mysterious  mark  of  Cain.  But  once,  while  he  was 
walking  to  and  fro  in  a  good  man's  shop  and  lamenting 
his  state,  a  noise  of  wind  rushed  in  upon  him,  and  he 
heard  a  voice  speaking — ''  Didst  ever  refuse  to  be 
justified  by  the  blood  of  Christ  ? "  ;  upon  which  that 
word  of  God  fell  on  him  with  power  "  See  that  ye 
refuse  not  him  that  speaketh."  At  length  he  could 
venture  to  come  nigh  unto  some  most  fearful  and 
terrible  Scriptures,  and  found  that  their  visage  was 
altered — "  they  looked  not  so  grimly  on  me  as  before 
I  thought  they  did." 

These  are  only  a  few  examples,  out  of  many,  of  the 
spells  cast  on  Bunyan's  spirit  by  that  mighty  book  of 
wizardry,  the  Bible.  He  read  it  not  as  literature,  but 
as  the  scroll  of  doom  ;  yet,  unconsciously,  it  became  a 
literature  for  him,  and  acted  as  the  chief  formative 
influence  on  his  imagination  and  his  style.  Its  words 
were  not  only  the  rallying  points  for  his  hopes  and  fears, 
but  their  music  lived  within  the  cells  of  his  fancy.  The 
portion  which  his  first  wife  brought  him  consisted  of 
two  books,  which  her  good  father  had  left  her  at  his 
death,  "  The  Plain  Man's  Pathway  to  Heaven,"  by 
Arthur  Dent,  and  Bishop  Bayly's  "  Practice  of  Piety." 
Bunyan's  biographer,  Dr  Brown,  discovers  some  traces 
of  the  influence  of  Dent's  homely  dialogue  in  the  "  Life 
and  Death  of  Mr  Badman."      The  "  Acta  Sanctorum  " 


250  Jo  hit  Bunymt 

of  Protestants — Foxe's  "Book  of  Martyrs" — doubtless 
stimulated  Bunyan's  heart  and  his  imagination  ;  there 
he  read  how  many  of  the  kindred  of  Faithful  had  played 
the  man  ;  how  they  had  been  scourged  and  buffeted, 
and  burnt  to  ashes  at  the  stake,  and  how  the  chariot 
and  horses  had  carried  them  up  through  the  clouds, 
with  sound  of  trumpet,  the  nearest  way  to  the  celestial 
gate.  In  his  earlier  religious  trials  the  only  volume, 
beside  the  Scriptures,  which  wrought  powerfully  upon 
him  was  Luther's  commentary  on  the  Galatians.  An 
old  copy,  falling  to  pieces,  came  into  Bunyan's  hands, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  book  had  been  written  out 
of  his  own  heart :  "  I  do  prefer  this  book  of  Martin 
Luther,"  he  writes,  "...  (excepting  the  Holy  Bible) 
before  all  the  books  that  ever  I  have  seen,  as  most  fit 
for  a  wounded  conscience." 

The  fluctuations  of  Bunyan's  passions  obscure  the  fact 
that  a  real  though  variable  progress  was  being  made  to- 
wards clearness  and  strength.  First  came  the  conviction 
of  sin  and  the  terrors  of  death  and  judgment.  Than  for 
a  time,  like  his  own  pilgrim,  Bunyan  turned  aside  to- 
wards the  village  of  Morality,  where  Mr  Legality  dwells  ; 
he  laboured  to  establish  his  own  righteousness  ;  he  was 
reputed  to  be  godly,  yet  he  found  that,  after  all,  he  was 
nothing  but  ''a  poor  painted  hypocrite."  In  the  end 
he  yielded  himself  wholly  to  something  without  and  be- 
yond himself,  something  which  he  felt  to  be  the  highest ; 
there  was  some  great  power  of  God  to  which  of  right  he 
belonged  ;  not  by  agonised  introspection,  not  by  moral 
manipulation  could  he  save  his  soul ;  he  must  abandon 
all  spiritual  egoism,  and  simply  cast  himself  in  with  the 


Joint  Bunyan  251 

divine  order  of  things  ;  its  meaning  was  good,  its  end  was 
righteousness,  and  he  was  himself  inchided  in  its  great 
movement.  Bunyan  would  not  have  used  such  words 
as  these ;  they  would  have  sounded  to  him  like  the 
phrases  of  Talkative,  mere  notion,  as  empty  of  religion 
as  the  white  of  an  Qgg  is  of  savour  ;  but  they  interpret 
the  fact  of  his  experience  to  modern  ears.  His  own 
word  would  have  been  that  unless  he  obtained  the 
righteousness  of  a  man  that  never  had  sinned,  neither 
his  own  nor  all  the  righteousness  of  the  world  could  save 
him.  It  was  his  way  of  asserting  that  the  entrance  to 
the  blessed  life  is  through  deliverance  from  self;  it  was 
his  way  of  hitching  his  waggon  to  a  star. 

''  One  day,"  he  writes,  "  as  I  was  passing  in  the  field, 
and  that  too  with  some  dashes  on  my  conscience,  fearing 
lest  yet  all  was  not  right,  suddenly  this  sentence  fell 
upon  my  soul,  '  Thy  righteousness  is  in  heaven,'  and 
methought  withal  I  saw  with  the  eyes  of  my  soul  Jesus 
Christ  at  God's  right  hand.  There,  I  say,  was  my 
righteousness ;  so  that  wherever  I  was,  or  whatever  I 
was  adoing,  God  could  not  say  of  me,  '  He  wants  my 
righteousness,'  for  that  was  just  before  Him.  I  also 
saw,  moreover,  that  it  was  not  my  good  frame  of  mind 
that  made  my  righteousness  better,  nor  yet  my  bad 
frame  that  made  my  righteousness  worse ;  for  my 
righteousness  was  Jesus  Christ  Himself,  '  the  same 
yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever.'  Now  did  the  chains 
fall  off"  my  legs  ;  I  was  loosed  from  my  afflictions  and 
irons ;  my  temptations  also  fled  away ;  so  that,  from 
that  time,  those  dreadful  Scriptures  of  God  left  off  to 
trouble  me ;  now  went   I    also   home   rejoicing  for  the 


252  Johi  Btmyan 

grace  and  love  of  God.'  Clouds  of  darkness  came  now 
and  again  after  this  crisis ;  but  a  sun  had  arisen  of 
power  to  dissipate  the  clouds. 

Amid  all  his  violences  of  religious  emotion,  Bunyan 
never  lost  a  certain  saving  good  sense.  Shrewdness  and 
manly  energy  are  written  on  that  face,  which  is  familiar 
to  us  throuo^h  the  animated  drawins^  of  Robert  White. 
The  dreamer  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress "  as  little 
resembled  in  aspect  the  visionary  of  the  Divine  Comedy 
as  Elstow  of  the  seventeenth  century  resembled  medi- 
aeval Florence.  He  was  a  sturdy  Englishman  of  the 
midlands,  tall  of  stature,  strong-boned,  with  ruddy 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes.  '  The  voices  that  haunted 
him  were  commonly  brought  to  the  test  which  he  and 
his  contemporaries  regarded  as  the  most  trustworthy — 
that  of  Scripture.  It  was  indeed  by  the  same  test  that 
Saint  Teresa  distinguished  between  diabolic  and  divine 
locutions — ''  that  which  purports  to  come  from  God," 
she  declares,  ''  is  to  be  received  only  in  so  far  as  it 
corresponds  with  the  sacred  writiugs."  As  a  preacher 
Bunyan,  although  it  was  not  the  habit  of  the  time,  in 
general  avoided  controversy  and  made  edification  his 
chief  object.  During  his  earlier  years  he  met  with  some 
of  the  Ranters'  books,  which  were  held  in  high  esteem 
by  several  of  his  acquaintances ;  one  of  his  intimate 
friends,  indeed,  turned  a  most  devilish  ranter,  and,  on 
the  plea  that  the  saints  are  delivered  from  the  moral 
law,  gave  himself  up  to  all  manner  of  filthiness.  Bunyan 
rebuked  the  young  man  for  his  wicked  ways,  and  then 
separated  from  his  company.  For  his  own  part  he  held 
fast  to  the  old  plain  rules  of  morality,  and  cared  not  if 


John  Bunyan  253 

wayward  enthusiasts  condemned  him  as  legal  and  dark. 
That  ancient  gentleman,  Mr  Conscience,  once  recorder 
of  Mansoul,  was  appointed  by  Emmanuel  subordinate 
preacher  under  the  Lord  Chief  Secretary,  and  was 
authorised  to  express  his  master's  will  in  all  terrene 
and  domestic  matters.  Bunyan  did  not  slight  the  sub- 
ordinate preacher's  office.  His  animal  appetites  might 
plead  on  behalf  of  the  "  Ranting  errors,"  but  he  would 
not  suborn  his  conscience,  and  he  had  his  safeguard  in 
the  words  of  the  Old  and  New  Testaments — "  the 
Bible,"  he  says,  "  was  precious  to  me  in  those  days." 
Those  keen  eyes  of  Bunyan  brought  him  reports  of  all 
the  homely  facts  of  life ;  his  Puritan  inwardness  was 
balanced  by  his  faculty  of  shrewd  observation.  He 
had  that  happy  adjunct  of  common  sense — the  gift  of 
humour. 

Some  things  are  of  that  nature  as  to  make 
His  fancy  chuckle  while  his  heart  doth  ache  ; 
When  Jacob  saw  his  Rachel  with  the  sheep, 
He  did  at  the  same  time  both  kiss  and  weep. 

So  Bunyan  justifies  the  wholesome  laughter  of  the 
'*  Pilgrim's  Progress."  He  was  no  mystic  in  the 
vulgar  meaning  of  that  word,  but  a  downright, 
practical  Englishman,  who  happened  to  be  also  a 
man   of  imaginative  genius. 

Ill 

With  such  powers  of  observation  and  of  insight,  he 
was  no  mean  discerner  of  characters.  The  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress "  is  a  gallery  of  portraits,  admirably  dis- 
criminated, and  as  convincing  in  their  self-verification 


2  54  John  Bunyan 

as  those  of  Holbein.  His  personages  live  for  us  as 
few  figures  outside  the  drama  of  Shakespeare  live. 
They  are  not,  like  the  humourists  of  Ben  Jonson's 
plays,  constructed  by  heaping  a  load  of  observations 
on  a  series  of  ethical  abstractions ;  they  are  of  a 
reasonable  soul  and  human  flesh  subsisting.  We  are 
on  terms  of  intimate  acquaintance  with  each  of  them ; 
with  Talkative,  the  son  of  one  Say-well,  who  dwelt  in 
Prating-row,  —  wherever  the  notional  apprehension  of 
things  is  taken  for  the  real  apprehension,  there  is  that 
discoursing  wit  to-day ;  with  By-ends,  always  zealous 
when  a  good  cause  goes  in  silver  slippers,  a  gentleman 
of  excellent  quality,  though  his  grandfather  was  but  a 
waterman,  looking  one  way  and  rowing  another  ;  with 
that  brisk  lad  Ignorance,  who  came  into  the  path  by  a 
little  crooked  lane  leading  from  the  country  of  Conceit ; 
there  is  a  narrow  gate  in  science  and  in  art  as  well  as 
in  religion,  which  the  kinsfolk  of  Bunyan's  Ignorance 
decline  to  enter  ;  with  Mrs  Lightmind,  who  yesterday 
at  Madam  Wanton's  was  as  merry  as  the  maids — surely 
she  is  cousin  to  the  brothers  Jolly  and  Griggish,  who 
came  to  an  ill  fate  at  the  hands  of  my  Lord  Willbewill, 
and  so  ended  their  ticking  and  toying  with  my  Lord's 
daughters  ;  with  Mr  Brisk,  who,  since  Mercy  was  of  a 
fair  countenance  and  therefore  the  more  alluringf,  offered 
her  his  love,  but  was  dashed  when  she  explained  that 
her  needlework  was  meant  to  clothe  the  naked,  and 
decided  on  reconsideration  that  she  was  indeed  a  pretty 
lass,  but  troubled  with  ill  conditions ;  with  that  old 
pilgrim  Father  Honest,  a  cock  of  the  right  kind,  for  he 
had  said   the  truth  ;  with  Mr  Fearing,  one  of  the  most 


John  Bunyan  255 

troublesome  of  pilgrims,  a  chicken-hearted  man,  yet 
having  the  root  of  the  matter  in  him,  and  who  at  last 
almost  dryshod  crossed  the  river,  when  it  was  at  its 
lowest  ebb  ;  with  Mr  Feeble-mind,  who  must  needs  be 
carried  up  the  Hill  Difficulty  by  one  of  the  Interpreter's 
servants,  yet  bravely  resolved  to  run  when  he  could,  to 
go  when  he  could  not  run,  and  to  creep  when  he  could 
not  go  ;  with  Mr  Ready-to-halt,  who,  despite  the  crutch, 
footed  it  well  in  view  of  the  dead  giant's  head,  hand  in 
hand  with  Despondency's  daughter  Much-afraid,  both 
answering  the  music  handsomely  ;  with  Madam  Bubble, 
that  tall  comely  dame,  somewhat  swarthy  of  complexion, 
speaking  very  smoothly,  and  giving  you  a  smile  at  the 
end  of  a  sentence,  w^hile  still  she  kept  fingering  her 
money  as  if  it  were  her  heart's  delight ;  with  Mr 
Valiant-for-truth,  Mr  Standfast,  who  crossing  the  river 
in  a  great  calm,  like  the  saintly  John  Wesley,  when  he 
was  half-way  in,  stood  for  a  while  and  talked  to  his  com- 
panions ;  with  the  dozen  enlightened  jurymen  of  Vanity 
Fair,  and  many  another.  Yet  these  are  but  examples 
from  the  drawings  of  the  Holbein  of  spiritual  England. 

One  book  of  Bunyan's  is,  indeed,  a  detailed  study 
of  English  middle-class  life  and  of  its  vulgar  vices. 
Recent  criticism  has  assigned  to  "The  Life  and  Death 
of  Mr  Badman  "  a  higher  place  in  literature  than  it 
deserves  ;  but  it  presents  one  side  of  its  author's  mind 
more  fully  than  any  other  of  his  writings.  Having 
published  the  first  part  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and 
enjoyed  the  surprise  of  its  extraordinary  success,  Bunyan 
seems  to  have  thought  of  presenting  a  counterpart  in 
the   story  of  one   who   had   travelled   another  road  than 


256  John  Bunyan 

that  of  Christian,  the  road  leading  not  to  the  Celestial 
City,  but  to  the  gates  of  hell.  The  book  is  not  a  vision 
or  a  dream  ;  it  lacks  the  beautiful  ideality  of  the  "  Pil- 
grim's Progress,"  which  has  made  that  allegory  of  uni- 
versal interest.  It  has,  on  the  other  hand,  something  of 
Hogarth's  naturalism  and  something  of  Hogarth's  enforce- 
ment of  morality  by  means  of  the  tomahawk  ;  it  is  the 
tale  of  an  Idle  Apprentice ;  it  is  a  bourgeois  Pake's  Pro- 
gress. The  narrative,  thrown  into  the  form  of  dialogue, 
is  interrupted  by  discourses  on  the  several  species  of  sin 
practised  by  that  rascally  provincial  tradesman,  the  hero, 
with  many  examples  drawn  from  real  life  of  God's  judg- 
ments against  sinners. 

The  book  had  its  origin  not  in  Bunyan's  personal 
experiences,  idealised  and  purified  by  the  imagination, 
but  in  his  observations  of  the  evil  that  lay  around  him. 
Even  as  a  child  Badman  was  a  highly  promising  pupil 
of  the  destroyer — addicted  to  lying,  a  pilferer,  abandoned 
(like  young  Eichard  Baxter)  to  the  joy  of  robbing 
orchards,  a  blackmouthed  wretch  who  cursed  and  swore, 
a  boy  who  could  not  endure  the  Lord's  Day,  swarming, 
indeed,  with  sins  as  a  beggar  is  with  vermin.  When 
his  good  father  would  rebuke  him,  what  would  young 
Badman  do  but  stand  gloating,  hanging  down  his  head 
in  a  sullen  pouching  manner,  while  he  secretly  wished 
for  the  old  man's  death  ?  As  an  apprentice  he  read 
beastly  romances  and  books  full  of  ribaldry,  slept  in 
church,  or  stared  at  pretty  faces  and  whispered  and 
giggled  during  sermon,  being  thus  grown  to  a  pro- 
digious height  of  wickedness.  His  knavish  fingers 
found    their   way   to   his    master's   cash-box,   and    soon 


John  Bunyan  257 

his  first  apprenticeship  closed  disgracefully  in  flight. 
After  a  second  apprenticeship,  during  which  a  base-born 
child  was  laid  to  his  charge,  Badman  set  up  in  business, 
but  through  dissipation,  high-living,  idleness,  and  evil 
company  quickly  came  to  the  end  of  the  money  obtained 
from  his  over-indulgent  father.  To  retrieve  his  fortunes 
he  sought  out  a  maid  who  had  a  good  portion,  and  as 
she  was  godly,  he  made  religion  his  stalking-horse  ;  but 
after  marriage  he  hanged  his  religion  upon  the  hedge, 
oppressed  his  unhappy  wife,  squandered  her  coin  upon 
his  drabs,  and  towards  morning  would  come  home  as 
drunk  as  a  swine.  He  reached  a  yet  lower  depth  of 
degradation,  when  he  turned  informer,  obtaining  a 
wretched  hire  by  betrayal  to  the  authorities  of  the 
nonconformist  religious  assemblies.  Running  up  credit 
and  paying  five  shillings  in  the  pound — the  neatest 
way  of  thieving — Badman  in  time  gained  hatfuls  of 
money.  He  knew  all  tricks  of  the  trade — the  art  of 
deceitful  weights  and  measures,  that  of  mingling  com- 
modities so  that  what  was  bad  might  go  off,  and  he 
was  skilled  in  misreckoning  men  in  their  accounts.  So 
he  goes,  with  hardly  an  interruption,  from  bad  to  worse. 
During  a  dangerous  fit  of  sickness,  indeed,  consequent 
on  the  breaking  of  his  leg  in  a  drunken  bout,  he  thought 
of  death  and  hell-fire,  and  altered  his  carriage  to  his 
wife,  who  was  now  his  duck  and  dear  ;  but  his  repent- 
ance was  worth  no  more  than  the  howlincr  of  a  dosr. 
The  broken-hearted  wife  dies,  and  Badman  is  tricked 
into  marriage  with  a  woman  as  wicked  as  himself.  At 
last  dropsy  and  consumption  seize  their  victim  ;  he  lies 
upon    his    bed    given   up  to  hardness  and  stupidity  of 

R 


258  John  Bunyan 

spirit.  "  Pray  how  was  he,"  asks  Attentive,  "  at  his 
death  ?  was  death  strong  upon  him  ?  or  did  he  die  with 
ease,  quietly  ?  "  The  last  and  severest  earthly  judgment 
of  God  is  not  an  agony  of  remorse  ;  it  is  apathy.  He 
died  ''as  quietly  as  a  lamb."  And  with  this  terrible 
word  Bunyan's  book  concludes. 

Such  a  narrative  as  this  could  not  connect  itself  with 
work  of  an  order  so  different  as  the  "  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress." The  two  inventions  move  on  different  planes. 
The  "  Pilgrim's  Progress "  is  the  poetry  of  Bunyan's 
soul ;  the  ''  Life  and  Death  of  Mr  Badman "  is  the 
prose  of  his  moral  observation  of  the  world.  Successive 
generations  may  in  general  be  trusted  to  preserve  the 
heirlooms  of  literature.  "  Mr  Badman  "  is  not  one  of 
these ;  but  it  deserves  the  attention  of  a  student  of 
Bunyan,   and   the    attention    of  a    student  of  Bunyan's 


age. 


IV 

The  great  allegories  of  human  life  commonly  make 
choice  between  two  modes  of  representation  ;  they 
describe  life  as  a  journey  or  they  describe  life  as  a 
warfare.  The  ''  Divine  Comedy  "  is  a  journey  through 
the  realms  of  eternal  life  and  death  ;  the  **  Vision  of 
Piers  Plowman "  is  a  pilgrimage  in  search  of  the 
highest  good ;  the  ''  Faerie  Queene  "  is  a  series  of 
knightly  crusades  against  the  powers  of  evil.  In  his 
two  allegories  Bunyan  has  presented  both  conceptions  ; 
the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress "  is  a  journey  from  the  City 
of  Destruction  to  the  Celestial  City  ;  the  ''  Holy  War  " 
tells    of    the    assault    upon  the   town    of    Mansoul    by 


John  Bunyau  259 

Diabolus,  his  conquest  by  fraud  and  force,  the  recapture 
of  the  town  for  Shaddai,  its  lawful  possessor,  by  Prince 
Emmanuel,  its  invasion  and  partial  ruin  by  the  enemy, 
and  the  final  victory  of  righteousness. 

In  one  respect,  and  in  that  alone,  can  Bunyan's 
later  allegory  the  "  Holy  War "  be  said  to  surpass 
the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  " — it  is  more  ingenious  in  the 
adaptation  of  its  details.  The  design  was  not  fortunate ; 
there  is  no  central  personage  having  the  parts  and 
passions  of  a  man  ;  the  town,  with  its  walls,  and  gates, 
and  citadel,  is  an  inanimate  abstraction — a  generalisa- 
tion of  humanity,  not  a  living  and  breathing  human 
creature.  The  multitude  of  its  inhabitants,  the  multi- 
tude of  their  foes  and  of  their  friends,  parcel  out  the 
powers  of  good  and  evil  in  the  soul  into  fragments  and 
atoms.  No  single  figure  interests  us  supremely ;  not 
one  lives  in  the  popular  memory.  We  hardly  feel  on 
closer  terms  of  familiarity  with  Captain  Credence,  or 
Captain  Goodhope,  or  Captain  Patience,  than  with  the 
five  points  of  Calvinistic  controversy.  In  the  ''  Pilgrim's 
Progress "  womanhood  is  presented  side  by  side  with 
manhood  ;  even  in  the  first  Part  gracious  female  forms 
appear  ;  in  the  ''  Holy  War "  counsellors  and  warriors 
leave  no  place  for  women  ;  half  of  our  human  society 
is  unrepresented.  The  pilgrimage  of  Christian  is  an 
individual  experience  idealised  in  art ;  it  is  the  Wahrheit 
und  Dichtung  of  Bunyan's  spiritual  life  ;  the  allegory 
of  Mansoul  is  a  piece  of  universal  history  ;  it  is  the  work 
of  Bunyan  the  preacher,  who,  having  taken  his  side 
in  the  warfare  of  good  and  evil,  was  interested  in  a 
great  cause.      But  the  epic  of  a  cause  requires  as  its 


26o  John  Bunyan 

representative  a  champion  exposed  to  the  vicissitudes 
of  fortune  and  in  the  end  falling  or  triumphant.  Bun- 
yan's  Emmanuel  is  too  much  of  a  deus  ex  machina ; 
his  beleaguered  city  is  an  abstraction  of  humanity ; 
the  epic  is  one  without  a  hero.  Bunyan's  ingenuity 
in  detail  astonishes  and  fatigues  the  reader ;  poetry  is 
replaced  by  wit  in  the  form  of  allegory.  One  episode, 
indeed,  rises  to  the  height  of  Bunyan's  nobler  work, 
but  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  second  of  equal  merit.  The 
town  of  Mansoul  has  been  conquered  by  Emmanuel, 
who  has  not  yet  made  his  entrance  and  remains  in  the 
fields.  The  guilty  inhabitants,  freed  from  the  tyranny 
of  their  oppressors,  are  still  uncertain  of  the  temper  of 
their  deliverer.  The  prisoners,  with  ropes  about  their 
necks,  go  forth  to  stand  before  the  Prince  ;  trembling 
and  amazed  they  hear  his  doom  of  mercy  ;  "  the  grace, 
the  benefit,  the  pardon,  was  sudden,  glorious,  and  so  big 
that  they  were  not  able,  without  staggering,  to  stand 
up  under  it."  The  joy  of  Bunyan's  own  heart,  when 
he  could  have  spoken  of  God's  love  and  mercy  to  the 
very  crows  sitting  on  the  furrows,  returned  upon  him  : 
*'  They  went  down  to  the  camp  in  black,  but  they  came 
back  to  the  town  in  white  ;  they  went  down  to  the  camp 
in  ropes,  they  came  back  in  chains  of  gold  ;  they  went 
down  to  the  camp  in  fetters,  but  came  back  with  their 
steps  enlarged  under  them  ;  they  went  also  to  the  camp 
looking  for  death,  but  they  came  back  from  thence  with 
assurance  of  life  ;  they  went  down  to  the  camp  with 
heavy  hearts,  but  came  back  again  with  pipe  and  tabor 
playing  before  them.  So,  as  soon  as  they  were  come 
to  Eye-gate,  the  poor  and  tottering  town  of  Mansoul 


John  Bunyan  261 

adventured  to  give  a  shout  ;  and  they  gave  such  a  shout 
as  made  the  captains  in  the  Prince's  army  leap  at  the 
sound  thereof." 

The  ''  Holy  War  "  is  a  construction,  not  a  vision. 
The  ''  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  came  to  Bunyan  unsought. 
His  imagination  seemed  to  be  the  subject  of  its  own 
involuntary  creations.  He  tells  us  in  ''Grace  Abounding" 
how,  in  the  days  of  his  spiritual  distress,  the  blessed 
state  of  the  poor  and  pious  folk  of  Bedford  was  imaged 
before  his  inner  eye.  He  saw  them  set  upon  the  sunny 
side  of  a  high  mountain,  refreshing  themselves  with  the 
pleasant  beams  of  the  sun,  while  he  was  shivering  and 
shrinking  in  the  cold,  afflicted  with  frost,  snow,  and  dark 
clouds.  A  wall  compassed  the  mountain,  through  which 
his  soul  greatly  desired  to  pass  ;  by  and  by  he  perceived 
a  narrow  gap,  like  a  little  doorway,  in  the  wall,  through 
which  he  attempted,  but  in  vain,  to  enter  :  "  at  last 
with  great  striving  methought  I  at  first  did  get  in 
my  head,  and,  after  that,  by  a  sidling  striving,  my 
shoulders  and  my  whole  body.  Then  was  I  exceeding 
glad,  and  went,  and  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  them, 
and  so  was  comforted  with  the  light  and  heat  of 
their  sun."  This  parable  was  no  deliberate  shaping 
of  Bunyan's  intellect  or  imagination  ;  it  came  to  him 
and  announced  itself.  And  in  like  manner  arose  his 
dream  of  the  pilgrim,  uncalled  for  and  with  no  laboured 
research,  as  if  it  were  the  courteous  revelation  of  some 
ministering  spirit. 

Bunyan's  biographer,  Dr  Brown,  conjectured  that  the 
**  Pilgrim's  Progress "  was  begun  not  during  his  long 
imprisonment   of  twelve  years  in    the    county  gaol    of 


262  John  Bunyan 

Bedford,  but  during  a  later  and  shorter  imprisonment 
of  1675-76  in  the  town  prison  and  toll-house  on 
Bedford  Bridge.  Mr  Thorpe's  discovery  of  the  warrant 
of  1674  confirmed  Dr  Brown's  happy  conjecture.^ 
Bunyan  was  engaged  upon  another  book — perhaps 
"  The  Strait  Gate  " — as  he  himself  informs  us,  when 
he  ''  fell  suddenly  into  an  allegory  "  ;  the  vision  seemed 
hourly  to  grow  by  virtue  of  its  own  vitality.  When 
he  had  set  down  twenty  things,  twenty  more  were  in 
his  head  ;  ideas  and  images  rose  into  his  consciousness 
''  like  sparks  that  from  the  coals  of  fire  do  fly  ; "  lest 
they  should  distract  him  wholly  from  the  book  on  which 
he  had  deliberately  resolved,  he  found  that  he  must 
make  a  place  for  them,  he  must  bestow  them  in  a  fit 
receptacle.  The  ''  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  he  declares,  was 
not  written  to  instruct  his  neighbours  but  to  gratify 
himself;  that  is  to  say,  it  was  the  work  of  a  devout 
artist,  like  those  mediaeval  craftsmen  who  carved  a 
capital  or  illuminated  a  missal,  and  being  such  a  work, 
done  for  his  own  contentment,  with  no  laboured  didactic 
purpose,  it  is  the  one  book  of  Bunyan's  which  has  de- 
lighted every  generation,  and  edified,  while  it  delighted, 
more  than  all  the  rest.  Dr  Brown  supposes  that  the 
portion  of  the  book  written  in  prison  closes  where 
Christian  and  Hopeful  part  from  the  shepherds  on  the 
Delectable  Mountains.  At  that  point  a  break  in 
the  narrative  is  indicated — ''  So  I  awoke  from  my 
dream  ;  "  it  is  resumed  with  the  words — "  And  I  slept 
and   dreamed   again,   and  saw  the    same    two    pilgrims 

1  See   Mr   Thorpe's   article    "How  I    found   the   Bunyan   Warrant," 
OfnUemvoLTi  s  Magazine,  February,  1890. 


John  Bunyan  263 

going  down  the  mountains  along  the  highway  towards 
the  city."  Already  from  the  top  of  an  high  hill  called 
"  Clear,"  the  Celestial  City  was  in  view  ;  dangers  there 
were  still  to  be  encountered  ;  but  to  have  reached  that 
high  hill  and  to  have  seen  something  like  the  gate,  and 
some  of  the  glory  of  the  place,  was  an  attainment  and 
an  incentive.      There  Bunyan  could  pause. 

The  second  part — the  pilgrimage  of  Christiana — was 
written  several  years  later.  Another  Christian  on  the 
same  journey  could  only  have  repeated  in  essentials  the 
adventures  of  the  first  with  artificial  variations,  and  the 
book  must  have  been  a  feebler  version  of  the  original 
narrative.  But  women  and  children  desire  the  Celestial 
City  as  well  as  men.  It  has  been  suggested  that  in 
Christiana  we  have  an  idealised  portrait  of  Bunyan's 
second  wife,  Elizabeth,  who  in  the  Swan  Chamber 
pleaded  his  cause  before  Sir  Matthew  Hale,  while  Mercy 
may  perhaps  have  been  created  from  memories  of  the 
wife  of  his  youth.  The  second  part  is  doubtless  inferior 
to  the  first  in  its  intensity  and  directness  ;  it  was  less 
a  record  of  Bunyan's  personal  experiences.  The  terrors 
of  the  way  are  softened  ;  its  consolations,  if  not  more 
exquisite,  are  more  freely  distributed — "  and  one  smiled, 
and  another  smiled,  and  they  all  smiled  for  joy  that 
Christiana  was  become  a  pilgrim."  There  is  no  moment 
in  the  women's  pilgrimage  so  dreadful  as  that  when 
Christian  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  took 
the  voice  of  the  wicked  one,  suggesting  many  grievous 
blasphemies,  for  his  own  utterance.  Roaring  giants 
armed  with  clubs  are  less  appalling  than  the  soft-footed 
and  whispering  fiend ;   and   Great-heart  is  at  hand,  con- 


264  John  Btcnyan 

voying  his  weak  ones,  a  conductor  sufficiently  skilled  in 
the  art  of  decapitating  giants  or  piercing  them  under  the 
fifth  rib. 

Yet  we  could  ill  spare  the  second  part  of  the  *'  Pilgrim's 
Progress."  Mr.  Froude  was  surely  in  error  when  he 
called  it  a  feeble  reverberation  of  the  first;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  is  the  best  of  all  after-pieces.  And  the  manly 
tenderness  of  Bunyan's  heart  finds  expression  here  as  it 
does  nowhere  else.  He  honours  Christiana  for  her 
courage  ;  he  leans  lovingly  over  Mercy — a  little  tripping 
maid  who  followed  God.  Beelzebub  shoots  no  arrows  at 
the  women  as  they  stand  knocking  at  the  gates  ;  it  is 
■bad  enough  that  a  dog  (and  a  great  one  too)  should 
make  a  heavy  barking  against  them  ;  while  they  knock 
the  Master  gives  them  a  wonderful  innocent  smile.  If 
the  two  ill-favoured  ones  cause  them  alarm,  the  Reliever 
is  presently  at  hand.  The  Interpreter,  with  a  "  sweet- 
heart "  and  a  "  dear-heart "  to  encourage  Mercy,  shows 
them  things  easy  to  understand,  His  garden  where  was 
great  variety  of  flowers,  the  robin  with  a  spider  in  his 
mouth,  the  hen  walking  in  a  fourfold  method  towards 
her  chickens — a  simplified  text  of  an  Evangelical  ^sop's 
fables.  When  arrayed  in  fine  linen,  white  and  clean,  the 
women,  fair  as  the  moon,  had  more  than  joy  in  their 
beautiful  garments  ;  they  seemed  to  be  a  terror  one  to 
the  other,  for  in  their  marvellous  humility  "  they  could 
not  see  that  glory  each  on  herself  which  they  could  see 
in  each  other."  They  are  comforted  in  departing  with 
a  bottle  of  wine,  some  parched  corn,  together  with  a 
couple  of  pomegranates — delightful  fare  for  pilgrims. 
Before  descending  to  the  Valley  of  Humiliation  they  hear 


John  Buiiyan  265 

the  birds  singing  their  curious  melodious  notes,  which 
had  been  learnt,  as  might  happen  with  pious  birds,  from 
Sternhold's  version  of  the  Psalms.  The  valley,  beautified 
with  lilies,  was  for  them  as  fruitful  a  place  as  any  the 
crow  flies  over,  and  there  it  was  that  they  espied  the 
fresh-favoured  shepherd-boy  feeding  his  father's  sheep, 
who  sang  of  the  blessedness  of  a  lowly  spirit,  and 
wore  more  of  that  herb  called  heart's-ease  in  his 
bosom  than  he  that  is  clad  in  silk  and  velvet. 
Even  in  going  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow 
they  had  daylight.  They  heard  the  celebration  of  their 
sex  from  the  lips  of  the  good  Gaius ;  they  had  a 
medical  adviser  as  well  as  a  beloved  spiritual  conductor  ; 
they  had  the  happiness  of  being  interested  in  several 
weddings ;  and  instead  of  lying  in  the  dungeon,  nasty 
and  stinking,  of  Despair,  they  enjoyed  a  pious  dance 
around  the  giant's  head  ;  the  shepherds  decorated  them 
wath  such  bracelets  and  earrings  as  Delectable  Mountains 
afford  ;  and  it  was  the  men  of  Bunyan's  earlier  pilgrim- 
age— so  courteous  is  he — not  the  adorned  women,  of  the 
later,  who  were  taken  in  the  flatterer's  net.  The  token 
sent  to  Christiana  that  she  should  make  haste  to  cross 
the  river  was  an  arrow  with  a  point  sharpened  with 
love ;  and  even  Despondency's  daughter.  Much-afraid, 
went  through  the  waters  singing — singing  of  some  in- 
comprehensible consolation,  for  none  on  the  hither  side 
could  comprehend  what  she  said. 

Yet  the  dangers  of  the  way  are  many  and  great. 
Until  Paradise  is  entered  wary  walking  must  be  the 
pilgrim's  rule.  From  the  moment  when  Christian  aban- 
dons the  doomed  city  to  the  moment  when  he  touches 


266  Joh7i  Bunyan 

the  heavenward  riverbank,  he  is  exposed  to  peril ;  at 
every  point  of  the  road  vigilance  is  needed  ;  the  wayfarer's 
loins  must  be  ever  girt ;  he  must  at  every  instant  be 
addressed  to  quit  him  like  a  man.  At  the  first  step 
Christian  is  plunged  into  the  Slough  of  Despond  ;  he 
escapes  from  it  only  to  be  sent  astray  by  Mr  Worldly- 
wiseman  and  to  endure  the  terrors  of  the  mount ;  the 
refreshment  at  the  Interpreter's  house  is  followed  by  the 
ascent  of  the  Hill  Difficulty,  where  in  an  arbour  the 
pilgrim-  slumbers  and  lets  his  roll  fall  from  his  hand  ; 
the  lions,  whose  chains  are  unseen,  test  his  courage  as 
he  approaches  the  House  Beautiful ;  thence  he  descends 
into  the  valley  where  he  encounters  Apollyon  ;  the  Valley 
of  Humiliation  leads  to  the  more  dreadful  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death,  having  on  the  right  hand  a  very  deep 
ditch  and  on  the  left  a  dangerous  quag,  where  in  the 
darkness  Christian  hears  doleful  voices  and  mysterious 
rushings  to  and  fro  ;  even  the  second  part  of  the  valley 
is  full  of  perils,  being  set  with  snares,  traps,  gins,  and 
nets,  and  abounding  in  deep  holes  and  desperate  shelv- 
ings  ;  after  the  valley  comes  the  wilderness  ;  and  after 
the  wilderness  the  town  of  Vanity-Fair,  where  one  pilgrim 
endures  the  cage  and  the  other  seals  his  witnessing  with 
a  martyr's  death  ;  escaped  from  Vanity-Fair,  Christian 
enters  into  discourse  with  By-ends,  and  is  tempted  by 
Demas  to  explore  the  fatal  silver- mine  ;  a  little  farther 
on  is  By-path  meadow — "  one  temptation,"  comments 
the  marginal  note,  "  does  make  way  for  another  " — 
where,  sleeping,  the  wanderers  fall  into  the  hands  of 
Giant  Despair.  Even  from  the  Delectable  Mountains 
terrible  things  are  viewed,  men  dashed  to  pieces  at  the 


John  Bunyan  267 

bottom  of  the  hill  Error  ;  men,  seen  from  the  hill 
Caution,  walking  up  and  down  among  the  tombs,  and 
stumbling  because  they  are  blind  ;  and,  yet  more  awful, 
the  door  in  the  side  of  an  hill,  by-way  to  hell  that 
hypocrites  go  in  at.  The  Celestial  City  is  now  visible 
through  a  perspective-glass,  but  it  is  with  warnings  in 
their  ears  that  Christian  and  Hopeful  part  from  the 
shepherds  ;  of  a  sudden  they  are  snared  by  the  Flatterer's 
net ;  delivered  and  scourged  by  the  Shining  One,  they 
go  for  a  while  softly  along  the  right  way,  but  presently 
Atheist  is  at  their  side,  and  when  he  turns  from  them 
they  have  reached  the  Inchanted  ground ;  the  pious 
converse  by  which  they  resist  the  invasion  of  sleep  is 
interrupted  by  the  volubility  of  young  Ignorance  ;  at 
length  they  have  arrived  at  the  country  of  Beulah,  where 
every  day  the  flowers  appear  in  the  earth  and  the  voice 
of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land.  But  still  the  river 
lies  before  them,  a  river  that  is  very  deep  ;  they  set 
foot  in  the  water  ;  all  the  waves  and  billows  go  over 
Christian's  head,  and  he  is  troubled  with  apparitions  of 
hobgoblins  and  evil  spirits.  Only  when  the  heavenly 
shore  is  attained  are  all  dangers  at  an  end  ;  the  City, 
indeed,  is  set  upon  an  hill,  but  up  that  hill  the  pilgrims 
go  with  ease,  for  they  have  left  behind  them  their  mortal 
garments,  and  the  rest  is  glorious  joy  which  neither 
tongue  nor  pen  can  express.  Yet  the  final  word  of 
Bunyan  is  one  of  solemn  warning.  Ignorance,  who  had 
crossed  the  river  in  the  boat  of  one  Vain  Hope,  a  ferry- 
man, finds  no  entrance  into  the  golden  city ;  he  is  bound 
hand  and  foot,  and  thrust  through  a  door  that  is  in  the 
side  of  the  hill :   "  Then  saw  I   that   there  is  a  way  to 


268  John  Bunyan 

Hell  even  from  the  gates  of  Heaven,  as  well  as  from  the 
City  of  Destruction.  So  I  awoke,  and  behold  it  was 
a  dream." 

A  dream  of  terrors,  but  also  of  consolations,  hope,  and 
joy ;  more  than  a  dream,  the  veritable  history  of  a 
human  soul,  lifted  into  a  higher  reality  by  the  power  of 
imagination.  Bunyan's  material  was  given  to  him  by  a 
series  of  agonising  personal  experiences,  which  seemed 
at  times  to  border  on  insanity,  and  by  a  great  deliver- 
ance wrought  in  his  own  heart.^  Nothing  is  more 
remarkable  than  the  mastery  with  which  his  imagination 
controls  and  pacifies  and  purifies  his  memories  of  pain 
and  rapture ;  the  humblest  realities  coalesce  with 
spiritual  passions  that  belong  to  eternity  as  much  as 
to  time.  Every  thing  verifies  itself  as  actual,  yet  the 
total  eflf'ect  is  ideal.  And  thus  the  book  acquired  an 
universal  import,  and  may  serve  as  a  manual  of  the 
inner  life  even  for  persons  whom  Bunyan,  with  his 
Puritan  theology,  would  have  classed  among  heathen 
men  and  infidels.  All  his  powers  co-operated  harmon- 
iously in  creating  this  book — his  religious  ardour,  his 
human  tenderness,  his  sense  of  beauty,  nourished  by  the 
Scriptures,  his  strong  common  sense,  even  his  gift  of 
humour.  Through  his  deep  seriousness  play  the  lighter 
faculties.  The  whole  man  presses  into  this  small  volume. 
The  purport  of  what  he  writes  in  its  most  general 
significance  is  no  other  than  that  exhortation  of  all  great 
spiritual  teachers — to  live  for  what  is  best  and  highest 

1  Mr  Heath,  in  articles  contributed  to  the  "Contemporary  Review," 
October  1896  and  July  1897,  endeavours  to  trace  much  in  Bunyan's 
designs  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  the  Holy  War  to  Anabaptist 
tradition  and  history. 


John  Btinyan  269 

and  most  real,  and  to  live  for  these  with  the  loins  girt 
and  the  lamp  lit — "  Viriliter  age,  exspectans  Dominum" 
quit  ye  like  men. 


A  comparison  between  the  great  Puritan  allegory 
and  two  other  memorable  works  of  a  like  kind — the 
Mediaeval  allegory  of  Langland  and  the  Renaissance 
allegory  of  Spenser — naturally  suggests  itself.  "  The 
Vision  of  William  concerning  Piers  the  Plowman " 
deals  like  "  The  Pilgrim's  Progress "  with  matter  of 
abiding  interest  for  every  age — the  higher  life  of  the 
individual  soul;  but  far  more  than  ''The  Pilofrim's 
Progress  "  is  Langland's  poem  a  study  of  contemporary 
society,  a  satire,  a  rebuke,  an  exhortation  addressed  to 
England  of  the  fourteenth  century.  In  its  art  it  is 
primitive,  lacking  in  imaginative  unity,  deficient  in 
imaginative  construction,  resembling  some  strange  page- 
ant or  procession  without  a  centre,  in  which  one  quaintly 
disguised  figure  succeeds  another,  which  itself  disappears 
to  give  way  to  a  third,  while  ever  and  anon  the  proces- 
sion is  interrupted  or  delayed  by  incursions  of  a  mis- 
cellaneous crowd.  Its  unity  is  to  be  found  in  the  moral 
spirit  which  pervades  the  whole,  and  in  the  fact  that  its 
purpose  is  eminently  social.  Bunyan's  wistful  desire 
is  concentrated  on  that  celestial  city  which  shines  very 
far  off.  How  shall  the  pilgrim  meet  the  dangers  of  the 
way  so  that  at  last  he  may  part  with  his  mortal  garments 
and  enter  those  blessed  gates  amid  hosannas  of  the 
heavenly  company  ?  Langland  considers  the  bettering 
of  man's  life  on  earth,  while  never  losing  sight  of  God 


270  John  Bunyan 

above  and  heaven  in  prospect ;  he  sets  forth  a  programme 
of  social  reform  ;  he  examines  the  duties,  one  to  another, 
of  the  various  classes  of  society  from  the  king  to  the 
peasant ;  he  protests  against  the  wrong-doings  of  lord 
and  labourer,  of  priest  and  layman  ;  he  warns  his 
countrymen  against  the  danger  of  unreal,  factitious, 
extravagant  virtues  pursued  to  the  neglect  or  detriment 
of  the  simple,  homely  honesties  of  life,  which  indeed  are 
not  less  difficult  of  attainment  and  are  not  less  divine. 
Chastity  without  charity  is  of  little  worth.  Depth  of 
theological  learning  will  not  produce  right  conduct,  for 
theology  is  a  "misty"  subject,  and  grows  mistier  the 
farther  you  advance  into  it.  Yet  learning  is  good,  and 
learned  men  are  fortunately  placed  for  their  moral 
welfare.  Above  all  Langland  insists  on  the  importance 
of  love  and  of  work.  Love  and  work — these  words  strike 
the  keynote  of  his  poem.  The  pursuit  of  truth,  indeed, 
is  named  as  the  chief  object  of  our  earthly  pilgrimage, 
but  by  truth  the  poet  means  no  statement  of  abstract 
doctrine  ;  he  means  truth  embodied  in  a  life,  precious 
because  it  tends  to  action  and  is  quickened  by 
charity. 

On  a  superficial  acquaintance  with  Langland's  allegory 
we  may  exclaim  "  What  title  has  this  incoherent  dreamer 
to  be  placed  by  Chaucer's  side?"  If  we  remain  longer 
in  his  company,  we  enter  into  fellowship  with  a  true 
brother,  seeking  in  his  fourteenth  century,  through  all 
perplexity  and  amid  much  moral  confusion,  for  the  same 
truth,  the  same  goodness  which  we  need  in  this  our 
day,  seeking  these  not  for  himself  alone,  that  he  may 
escape  from    some  wrath    to    come,  but    because    men 


John  Bunyan  27 1 

and  women  on  the  right  hand  and  the  left,  straying, 
suffering,  sinning,  were  dear  to  his  heart ;  a  man  full  of 
fearless  indignation  because  he  was  full  of  love,  hating 
evil  because  he  zealously  cherished  what  was  good;  a  man 
who  must  see  matters  out  for  himself;  who  could  not 
put  his  conscience  or  his  intellect  into  another's  keeping ; 
who  must  live  the  veritable  life  of  an  individual  soul, 
not  a  factitious  life  of  forms  and  ceremonies,  or  the 
life  of  a  mere  member  of  a  class  or  an  ecclesiastical 
corporation. 

The  close  of  the  series  of  visions,  in  their  best 
redaction,  is  peculiarly  noble.  Piers  the  Plowman  has 
risen  into  the  ideal  representative  of  all  truth  and  good- 
ness, and  Conscience,  that  which  is  most  inward  in  man, 
is  seeking  for  Piers.  But  does  he  in  the  end  attain  the 
object  of  his  great  desire  ?  Has  Langland  a  complete 
solution  of  the  moral  difficulties  and  imperfections  of  life 
to  offer  ?  The  answer  is  stern  in  its  honest  heroism — 
"I  count  not  myself  to  have  apprehended."  Conscience 
as  the  poem  closes  has  not  found  Piers ;  but  in  the 
concluding  lines  he  declares  his  resolve  still  to  forget 
those  things  that  are  behind  and  to  reach  forth  unto 
those  things  that  are  before.  This  at  least  is  possible  in 
our  mortal  life — to  seek  for  what  is  highest : 

"  By  Christ,"  quoth  Conscience  then,  "  I  will  become  a  pilgrim, 
And  walk  as  wide  as  all  the  world  lasteth, 
To  seek  Piers  the  Plowman,  that  Pride  may  destroy." 

For  who  indeed  annihilates  all  our  earthly  and 
spiritual  pride  save  Piers?  And  with  the  cry  of 
Conscience  the  dreamer  awakes.  It  is  a  conclusion 
perhaps  more  full  of  strenuous  encouragement  than  even 


272  John  Bunyan 

the  celestial  shawms  and  trumpets  which   greet  those 
happy  pilgrims  of  Bunyan,  who  are  pilgrims  no  more. 

VI 

The  "  Faerie  Queene  "  is  an  Odyssey  of  culture — of 
culture  moral  and  religious  rather  than  intellectual. 
The  purpose  of  the  whole  poem  is  to  present  an 
ideal  of  noble  character,  and  to  exhibit  the  discipline 
by  which  such  character  is  formed.  It  is  an  ideal — 
aristocratic,  not  popular — meant  for  the  heroic  uses 
of  earth.  Upon  the  basis  of  active  godliness,  manifest- 
ing and  training  itself  in  generous  enterprise,  is  built 
a  structure  of  moral  virtues  and  courtly  graces.  While 
Spenser  was  essentially  a  man  of  the  Reformation,  in 
sympathy — at  least  in  his  earlier  years — rather  with 
the  Puritan  than  the  high  Anglican  or  Catholic 
tendency  of  the  English  Church,  he  was  also  essen- 
tially a  man  of  the  Renaissance.  Prophets  and  Evan- 
gelists hold  hands  in  his  teaching  with  Aristotle  and 
Plato,  and  the  group  of  masters,  sacred  and  profane, 
is  encircled  by  a  bright  arabesque  of  Italian  ornament. 
The  discipline  of  virtue  is  stern  ;  there  is  an  unceasing 
knightly  encounter  with  evil ;  the  field  of  virtue  is 
this  world  of  ours,  no  place  of  pilgrimage,  but  our 
goodly  habitation,  to  forsake  which  were  treason  against 
the  queen  and  mistress  of  our  lives ;  a  habitation  which 
we  should  rejoice  to  cleanse,  to  beautify  and  to 
strengthen. 

For  corporate  human  life  Bunyan  had  little  feeling ; 
for  national  life,  for  the  play  of  England's  sword-arm 
among     the     peoples    of    Europe     he    had     still     less. 


John  Bunyan  273 

Spenser's  knights,  though  each  is  entrusted  with  his 
single  enterprise,  form  a  goodly  fellowship  under  their 
great  queen  and  empress.  A  strain  of  lofty  patriotism 
animates  them  to  high  achievement.  The  first  to  start 
forth  in  defence  of  injured  Truth  is  no  other  than 
Saint  George,  the  patron  of  our  land.  Spain  and 
the  Papacy  are  not  only  hostile  to  true  religion  but 
are  the  foes  of  that  free  people,  whose  avenging  might 
they  had  lately  tempted.  And  yet  while  Spenser 
writes  as  an  English  patriot  and  Bunyan  as  the 
member  of  a  despised  and  persecuted  sect,  it  might 
be  truly  maintained  that  the  genius  of  England  is 
expressed  more  characteristically  in  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress  "  than  in  ''  The  Faerie  Queene."  The  union 
of  a  high  spiritual  intention  with  a  homely  realism 
is  Bunyan's  achievement  and  is  not  Spenser's.  The 
strong  objective  touch  is  Bunyan's ;  his  pathos  is 
deeper ;  his  passion,  less  diffused  than  that  of  Spenser, 
is  more  intense ;  his  humour,  though  the  author  of 
''  Mother  Hubbard's  Tale  "  was  not  devoid  of  humour, 
is  more  direct  and  genial  ;  his  personages  are  more 
substantial  and  less  abstract — bone  of  our  bone  and 
flesh  of  our  flesh.  The  endless  visions  of  Spenser's 
imagination  deploy  themselves  as  tranquilly  and  con- 
tinuously as  the  Indian  tree,  which  rises  and  descends 
and  roots  itself  anew,  and  spreads  into  a  forest. 
Bunyan's  gaze  is  steadied  amid  the  agonies  of  his 
fear  and  the  raptures  of  his  joy  only  by  the  power 
of  faith  controlling  his  imagination.  It  may  be  added 
that  Bunyan's  design  is  happier  in  its  conception 
than  Spenser's,  less  vast,  less  liberal  in  its  humanities, 

s 


2  74  John  Bunyan 

but  more  susceptible  of  a  treatment  which  respects 
the  law  of  artistic  unity,  and  that  Bunyan  accomplished 
what  he  designed.  Had  Spenser  completed  his  twelve 
books  of  the  Faerie  Queen e,  and  added  another  twelve 
on  the  public  virtues,  few  readers  would  have  followed 
him  through  the  interminable  maze  of  allegory  and 
adventure;  no  reader  could  have  held  before  his 
imagination  the  varied  and  interminable  prospect. 
But  no  one  who  has  started  with  Christian  from  his 
doorway  in  the  doomed  city  ever  failed  to  accompany 
him  through  all  the  trials  of  the  way ;  we  know 
every  ascent  and  descent  of  the  pilgrim's  path  ;  we 
do  not  find  that  anything  can  be  added  ;  we  do  not 
desire  that  anything  should  be  omitted ;  every  incident 
and  every  episode  contributes  to  the  unity  of  the 
whole. 

VII 

Such  a  comparison  between  the  religious  allegories  of 
three  periods,  each  exhibiting  a  different  stage  in  the 
growth  of  the  English  mind,  inevitably  presents  itself 
to  the  student  of  literature.  But  the  moral  temper 
of  Bunyan's  time  is  perhaps  more  vividly  felt  if  we  set 
**  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  the  most  popular  work  of 
the  religious  imagination  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
side  by  side  with  the  most  popular  imaginative  work 
of  the  generation  which  followed  Bunyan,  a  work  as 
characteristically  English  as  his,  and  one  which  like 
his  has  been  accepted  by  the  world  at  large  as  an 
interpretation  of  the  genius  of  our  race.  The  author 
like  Bunyan  sprang  from  the  people — a  man  of  vulgar 


John  Bunyan  275 

origin  ;  like  Bunyan  he  belonged  to  a  community  of 
religious  nonconformists  ;  his  book,  like  Bunyan's,  pro- 
fesses to  be  an  allegory  ;  and,  if  we  are  to  regard  it 
as  such,  the  allegory,  like  Bunyan's,  had  a  direct  relation 
to  his  own  life.  The  points  of  community  are  real ; 
yet  no  two  books  can  express  tendencies  more  essen- 
tially different  than  "  The  Pilgrim's  Progress "  and 
"  Robinson   Crusoe." 

The  mundane  spirit  had  invaded  Puritanism  even 
before  the  Restoration  of  King  Charles  II.  Wars  of 
trade,  as  Professor  Gardiner  notices,  had  succeeded 
the  wars  of  religion.  With  the  Restoration  material 
interests  became  predominant  throughout  the  nation. 
Milton  and  Bunyan  are,  in  a  certain  sense,  survivals 
from  the  past.  The  temper  of  the  age  is  represented 
more  truly  by  Butler's  "  Hudibras "  than  by  "  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress."  Theological  passion  was  by  de- 
grees in  large  measure  replaced  by  scientific  curiosity. 
The  violent  exhortations  of  the  pulpit  were  succeeded 
by  lessons,  in  which  Tillotson  was  a  master,  in  Christian 
morals.  A  series  of  political,  ecclesiastical,  and  philo- 
sophical compromises  served  as  temporary  expedients 
to  smoothe  the  path  of  progress.  The  middle  classes 
advanced  in  wealth,  in  power,  and  in  influence.  After 
the  jagged  precipices  and  forlorn  valleys — scenes  of 
spiritual  exaltation  or  despair — a  table  land  was 
reached — safe,  if  unheroic — where  men  might  plough 
and  build.  To  make  the  best  of  both  worlds  was  the 
part  of  prudence,  and  of  the  two  worlds  that  on  which 
our  feet  are  planted  is,  at  least,  the  nearer  and  the 
more  submissive  to  our  control.      Divine  providence  is 


276  John  Bunyan 

doubtless  to  be  acknowledged,  but  it  is  highly  desirable 
to  supplement  Divine  providence  by  self-help. 

Defoe's  narrative  of  the  castaway  mariner  is  the 
English  prose  epic  of  self-help.  Crusoe,  the  forlorn 
hero,  a  tradesman's  son,  with  intelligence  above  the 
common,  yet  far  from  super-eminent,  and  with  a  rare 
force  of  will,  is  no  pilgrim  following  after  a  divine  Piers, 
no  Arthur  devoted  to  the  service  of  Queen  Gloriana, 
no  Christian  struggling  through  a  Valley  of  Shadow, 
buffeted  in  Vanity  Fair,  climbing  Delectable  Mountains, 
or  listening  to  the  song-birds  in  the  country  of  Beulah. 
He  needs  a  cover  for  his  head,  food  to  eat,  tools  to  pro- 
cure his  food,  a  home,  even  if  a  parrot  and  a  kid  are  his 
fellow-lodgers,  some  appearance  of  British  decency  and 
comfort,  and,  in  order  that  he  may  square  accounts  with 
heaven,  a  copy  of  the  English  Bible.  By-and-bye  he 
will  become  a  colonial  governor  and  an  amateur  mis- 
sionary provided  with  firearms  and  the  Gospel,  not 
indifferent,  at  the  same  time,  to  effecting  a  good 
exchange  for  his  "  knives,  scissors,  etc.,"  with  those 
untutored  barbarians  whom  he  would  fain  convert  to 
the  use  of  civilised  garments  and  a  Scriptural  faith. 
The  moral  is  broad  and  plain — with  energy,  ingenuity, 
and  resolution  it  is  possible  under  the  most  unfavour- 
able conditions  to  make  this  life  more  than  tolerable 
and  even  to  arrange  one's  future  affairs  on  a  satisfactory 
footing  with  an  offended  Deity. 

Whatever  sense  of  mystery  is  to  be  found  in  Defoe's 
narrative  must  be  sought  in  that  deep,  irrational  passion 
for  wandering  which  possessed  Crusoe  from  boyhood, 
unchecked  by  his  good   father's  warnings  and   often  to 


John  Bunyan  277 

the  obvious  detriment  of  his  material  interests ;  in  this 
and  in  certain  strange  premonitions  and  forefeelings, 
secret  oracles  of  the  heart,  which  he  never  could  dis- 
regard without  loss  or  danger.  For  the  rest,  all  is  the 
domain  of  intelligence  and  will.  The  island  is  no 
enchanted  territory  of  Prospero,  full  of 

Sounds  and  sweet  airs  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not ; 

nor  has  Crusoe  any  magic  book  and  wand  by  which  to 
control  the  elements,  or  command  his  airy  spirits.  His 
most  vivid  surprise  is  to  hear  poor  Poll  articulate  his 
name  ;  his  moment  of  superstitious  fear  is  when  he  sees 
an  old  goat's  eyes  shining  in  the  dark ;  his  staggering 
terror  is  caused  by  the  imprint  of  a  human  foot  upon 
the  sand.  He  is  neither  a  poet  nor  a  sentimental  wor- 
shipper of  nature.  The  everlasting  wash  of  waves  is 
only  a  musical  accompaniment  to  the  ring  of  his  wood- 
man's axe ;  the  sunrise  lights  him  to  labour  and  the 
sunset  invites  him  to  repose. 

It  is  the  epic  of  brave  human  endeavour.  "  Tools 
and  the  man,"  sings  Defoe,  with  the  inspiration  of  a 
British  muse,  vigorous  and  bourgeois.  There  is  much 
virtue  in  subduing  a  piece  of  the  earth,  in  sowing  corn, 
in  weaving  a  basket,  in  shaping  a  boat.  The  reckless 
youth  will  be  transformed  into  a  prudent  God-fearing 
man,  and  when  prosperous  days  arrive  will  be  saved 
from  mere  respectability  by  that  hidden  fire  of  adven- 
ture in  his  heart,  which  even  old  age  cannot  extinguish. 
We  accept  him  as  a  hero  of  our  race.  Adventurer, 
trader,  colonist,  missionary,  we  give  him  hail  as  one  of 
our   makers   of  empire.      He   it   is   who  will   announce 


278  John  Bunyan 

laws  and  establish  order.  Wild  Caribbean  and  grave 
Spaniard  will  acknowledge  him — the  resourceful,  un- 
wearied artificer — their  master.  To  him  the  world  is 
no  Vanity  Fair,  but  a  waste  to  till,  a  forest  to  clear,  a 
market  for  which  to  cater.  And  knowing  the  world 
and  men  as  craftsman  and  tradesman,  he  has  learnt  the 
lesson  of  tolerance.  The  Spaniards  of  Defoe  are  Papists, 
but  they  are  far  more  estimable  and  honourable  persons 
than  his  wild  Will  Atkins ;  and  yet  Will,  being  British 
and  a  clergyman's  son,  has  it  in  him,  if  he  is  but 
reclaimed  and  moralised,  to  be  worth  a  wilderness  of 
Spaniards.  It  is  the  pious  Roman  priest  who  points 
out  to  Crusoe  how  improper  it  is  that  his  subjects 
should  live  in  adultery  with  unconverted  wives,  and  it 
is  he  who  by  a  pious  fraud  succeeds  in  making  them 
honest  men  and  women ;  otherwise  God's  wrath  might 
have  come  upon  the  island.  The  gain  in  tolerance  since 
Bunyan's  time  was  the  gain  of  Defoe's  generation.  The 
turning  to  earth,  with  its  sanities  of  hopeful  toil,  was 
assuredly  not  altogether  loss. 


IX 

SAMUEL  BUTLER 


The  device  of  wringing  pathos  out  of  the  jester's  life  is 
common.  The  circus  clown  parts  with  tears  from  his 
djdng  wife,  i^allid  and  lean  in  her  lonely  garret,  and 
presently  he  appears  in  motley  with  antic  and  grin 
amid  the  roar  of  applauding  spectators.  He  returns 
despairful,  seats  himself  on  the  wretched  bed,  and  the 
copious  tears  are  renewed.  No  pathos  of  this  kind 
forms  part  of  the  story  of  the  author  of  "  Hudibras  " ; 
but  until  we  have  perceived  that  he  was  more  than  a 
jester,  until  we  have  brought  home  to  ourselves  the  fact 
that  his  jests  were  flashes  of  merriment  which  played 
over  a  gulf  of  gloom,  we  have  not  known  Samuel  Butler 
aright.  His  wit  was  a  missile,  hard  and  keen  as  the 
stones  of  a  sling;  we  may  name  him  captain  of  the 
slingers  who  fought  under  the  banner  of  reason  and 
sense. 

The  life  of  Butler  extended  over  nearly  seventy  years 
of  his  century — from  1612  to  1680.  He  saw  the  rise 
and  progress  of  the  Civil  War,  rejoiced  at  the  downfall 
of  the  Commonwealth,  and  died  in  poverty  some  twenty 
years  after  the  restoration  of  monarchy  in  England.     We 

know  too  little  of  Butler  apart  from  his  writings  to  feel 

279 


2  8o  Samuel  Butler 

towards  him  as  we  do  towards  authors  who  have  become 
our  intimates  or  friends  ;   nor  do  his  writings  commend 
him  to  our  affection.      We  may  indeed  doubt  whether 
he  ever  cultivated  the  friendship  of  men  ;  he  was  a  great 
observer,  and  seems  to  have  kept  his  fellows  at  arm's 
length,    the  better   to    study  their  aspect  and  bearing. 
He  could  live  and   move  among  Puritans,  noting  their 
infirmities  and  extravagances,  while  he  himself  remained 
unnoticed  and  unknown.      He  had  none  of  the  g&nerous 
illusions  and  gallantries   of  the  cavalier.      He  did   not 
write  amiable  flatteries  to  be  prefixed  to  the  volumes  of 
contemporary   poets.      He  could  join   with   others  in   a 
sneer  at  Edward  Howard's  "British  Princes";   he  could 
tell  Sir  John  Denham  that  "  Cooper's  Hill "  was  bought 
to   be  passed   off  under  a  false  name,  and   that  "  The 
Sophy"  was  borrowed  ;  but  he  could  not  say  a  word  of 
generous   praise.      He    held    himself  in   reserve,    or  he 
repelled  and  was  repelled.      And,  accordingly,  we  know 
little  of  his  private  life ;  his  celebrity  was  a  mask  behind 
which  the   man  lay  hidden.      When   Lord  Dorset  con- 
trived a  meeting  with   Butler  at  a  tavern,  he  found   the 
illustrious   wit    very    flat   and    heavy,    until   the   second 
bottle  roused  his  spirit ;  at  the  third  bottle  Butler  sank 
into  a  deep  stupidity  and  dulness.      "  He  is  like  a  nine- 
pin,"  said  his  lordship,  "  little  at  both  ends,  but  great  in 
the  middle."    It  is  evident  that  Butler  was  not  a  person 
of  light  and  bright  temper  ;   he  needed  something  to  lift 
him  above  himself.      He  speaks  of  wine  as  given  to  man 
in  order  that  he  may  cherish  his  frail  happiness,  given 
to  teach  him  judgment,  wit,  and  sense. 

And,  more  than  all  these,  confidence. 


Samuel  Butler  281 

We  are  told  that  he  was  a  lover  of  music ;  but  he 
writes  no  songs  for  the  lute ;  his  verse,  though  skilled 
in  its  craftsmanship,  is  mean,  and  nowhere  in  all  that  he 
composed  can  we  find  a  strain  of  noble  melody.  We  are 
told  that  he  was  passionately  fond  of  painting,  and  thought 
at  one  time  of  devoting  his  life  to  that  art ;  but  nowhere 
has  he  created  for  our  imagination  one  picture  of  har- 
monious and  coloured  beauty.  Living  in  a  time  of  social 
and  political  strife,  melancholy  in  temperament,  keen 
of  intellect,  an  observer  and  an  anatomist  of  human 
follies,  he  used  his  intelligence  as  a  scalpel  in  the  pro- 
cesses of  pathological  dissection. 

One  of  Butler's  shorter  pieces — that  ''  Upon  the 
Weakness  and  Misery  of  Man " — betrays  the  gloomy 
abyss  that  lay  below  his  wit.  Its  mood  is  like  that 
whicli  grew  upon  Swift  as  the  world  became  arid  to 
his  disenchanted  gaze,  the  mood  of  passionate  revolt 
against  life.  The  poem  is  not  a  satire  directed  against 
contemporary  follies  ;  it  is  a  general  indictment  of 
humanity.  Nature  brings  us  forth  only  to  be  found 
guilty,  and  at  best  to  be  forgiven.  What  are  our  offer- 
ings to  God  but  begging  presents  to  get  more  ?  What 
is  our  purest  zeal  but  a  pious  intention  which  effects 
more  harm  than  the  worst  deeds  ?  What  is  our  devout 
humility  but  a  vain  glory  in  our  wretchedness  ?  What 
is  our  birth  but  a  sentence  of  condemnation,  and  our 
life  but  a  series  of  reprieves  ? 

Our  pains  are  real  things,  and  all 
Our  pleasures  but  fantastical  ; 

Our  noblest  piles  and  stateliest  rooms 
Are  but  outhouses  to  our  tombs. 


282  Samuel  B  title  r 

The  stars  have  conspired  to  imprint  a  fatal  brand  and 
signature  of  impurity  on  the  human  race.  Yet  the  ills 
inflicted  on  mankind  by  nature  are  as  nothing  compared 
with  those  wrongs  which  men  inflict  on  their  own  hated 
species.  If  for  a  moment  the  heavens  forget  to  seek 
recruits  for  death  by  pestilence,  brother  rises  in  civil 
strife  to  slay  his  brother.  Or  if  there  be  peace,  what 
is  peace  but  luxury  and  excess,  which  are  more  fatal 
than  the  earthquake  ?  What  is  wealth  but  disease, 
discontent,  debt,  or  at  most  the  means  to  purchase  six 
feet  of  earth  in  the  parish  church  ?  Yet  greater  than 
these  curses  is  the  curse  of  the  intellect,  by  which  man 
shapes  out  of  his  own  bow^els  a  rack  for  his  sins,  or  hangs 
his  soul  upon  subtle  curiosities  of  speculation.  The  in- 
telligence which  was  meant  to  be  a  sword  we  break 
against  the  anvil  on  which  it  was  made  ;  we  torment 
ourselves  most  to  know  that  which  we  can  never  shape 
into  a  deed  ;  we  are  busy  in  creating  for  ourselves  the 
misery  of  eternal  doubt ;  we  start  at  the  spectres  which 
we  have  projected  upon  the  darkness ;  we  spend  our- 
selves in  hypothetic  dreams  and  visions,  and  are  sceptics 
in  those  things  which  are  evident.  In  this  poem  Butler 
does  not  jest,  or  if  he  jests,  the  flash  only  illumines  for 
an  instant  the  surrounding  darkness.  He  writes  with  a 
passionate  melancholy  not  far  removed  from  despair. 

In  this  scene  of  human  life,  so  dim  and  troubled, 
where  did  Butler  look  for  some  security,  some  consola- 
tion ?  He  distrusted  the  ardours  of  the  heart ;  he  had 
no  wing  for  imaginative  soaring.  The  enthusiasm  of 
religious  emotion  was  in  his  eyes  utterty  discredited ;  he 
could  not  abandon  himself  to  either  a  person  or  a  cause. 


Sam  uel  Butler  283 

He  looked  for  what  is  best  in  man  to  the  understand- 
ing, limiting  itself  to  what  can  really  be  ascertained,  to 
judgment,  to  good  sense.  He  anticipates  the  rational-  \ 
ising  spirit  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Human  reason 
is  in  a  high  degree  fallible  ;  but  let  us  not  essay  Icarian  ^ 
wings  ;  let  us  rather  use  our  tolerable  crutch.  Among 
Butler's  papers  were  found  certain  "  Reflections  upon 
Reason,"  which  were  posthumously  published.  "Reason," 
he  writes,  "  is  the  only  helm  of  the  understanding ;  the 
imagination  is  but  the  sail,  apt  to  receive  and  be  carried 
away  with  every  wind  of  vanity,  unless  it  be  steered  by 
the  former.  And  although,  like  the  lodestone,  it  have 
some  variations,  it  is  the  only  compass  man  has  to  sail 
by ;  nor  is  it  to  be  contemned  because  it  sometimes 
leads  him  upon  a  rock — that  is  but  accidental,  and  he 
is  more  apt  to  hit  upon  those  without  it."  Reason,  and 
reason  alone,  is  the  foundation  of  religion  :  ''  Faith  can 
determine  nothing  of  Reason,  but  Reason  can  of  Faith  ; 
.  .  .  the  very  being  of  Faith  depends  upon  Reason." 
But  how  little  rational  is  the  mass  of  men  1  True ;  and 
therefore  certain  lures  and  frauds  are  provided  by  which 
to  practise  on  their  hopes  and  fears,  so  to  restrain  their 
blind  and  inordinate  passions. 

In  the  eighteenth  century  reason  was  not  merely 
destructive  ;  it  laid  a  great  basis  for  construction ;  it 
was  united  with  a  boundless  faith  in  the  progress  of 
science  and  the  progress  of  humanity  ;  it  helped  to  create 
a  new  conception  of  the  material  universe  and  to  reform 
human  society.  With  Butler  the  work  of  the  under- 
standing was  in  the  main  destructive,  or,  if  not  destruc- 
tive, critical.      He  looked  abroad,  and  saw,  or  thought 


284  Samuel  Butler 

he   saw,  a   world    of  UTireason ;    in  politics  he  saw,   or 
thought  he  saw,  no  broadening  out  of  great  principles, 
for  which  to  surrender  life  would  be  a  little  thing,  but   ( 
rather   civil   fury,  a  rage  for  democratic  licence,  a  war 
against  established  authority ;    in   religion  he  saw  the   1 
extravagances  of  hot-headed  zealots,  the  presumptuous 
confidence  of  ignorance,  the  sanctification  and  glorification 
of  nonsense,  the  jar  of  rival  follies,  piety  made  a  cloak 
for  ambition  and  greed.      And  over  against  the  unreason" 
of  the  saints  he  saw  another  form  of  human  madness — 
the  rage  of  brutal  pleasure,  the  reversion  to  the  beast. 
Aloof  and  detached  even  from  his  own  party,  Butler  was 
a  critic  of  the  followers  of  the  exiled  King  and  of  the 
wantons  who  gathered  to  the  Restoration   court.      The 
cavalier  who  risked  everything  for  loyalty  was  especially 
loyal  in  forsaking  all   that  he  could  no  longer  keep,  in 
order  to  be  a  burden  to  his  master,  and  truly  and  faith- 
fully to  eat  and  drink  at  his  expense  :   ''  He  forsook  his^ 
native  country  because  it  forsook   him  before,  and   cast  1 
himself  upon  the  King,  who  knew  as  little  what  to  do  i 
with  him  as  he  did  with  himself"      Raillery  and  fooling 
are  found   to  be  higher  qualifications  for  statesmanship 
under  the   monarchy  than   the   old-fashioned   virtues  of 
wisdom    and   judgment.      The    degenerate   noble   is  an 
empty  house  haunted,  to  his  extreme  disquiet,  by  the 
ghost    and    shadow    of    his    ancestors'    honour.       The 
decorative  courtier  is  no  better  than  the  furniture  for 
X  a  room,   a   walking   picture,  a   moving  piece  of  arras.^ 
It  was  not  Puritanism  only  that  Butler  detested  ;    he 

1  Butler's  characters   of  "A  Risker,"  "A  Modern  Statesman,"   "A 
Degenerate  Noble,"  "A  Huffing  Courtier. " 


Samuel  Butler  285 

loathed  the  vileness  of  the  Eestoration  ;  and  in  the  orgies  | 
alike  of  saints  and  sinners  he  perceived  one  and  the  ] 
same    phenomenon — violence    done    to    human    reason, 
good  sense,  decency,  and  moderation.      Twice  the  foolish 
world  has  been  turned  topsy  turvy  ;  no  sooner  was  the 
juggler's  pocket  emptied  of  hypocrisy,  than  the  reversed 
receptacle  was  filled  with  impotent   iniquity  and  sin ; 
the  hypocrisy  of  piety  was  followed  by  the  hypocrisy  of 
wickedness — pretensions  to  greater  vice  than  it  is  pos- 
sible for  human  nature  to  achieve  ;  Paradise  was  to  be 
regained,  not  by  grace,  but  by  the  newer  way  of  shame- 
less debauchery.      The   sectaries  had  drowned   the  light 
of  reason   in   spiritual  ignorance  ;  the  voluptuaries  and 
sots    of   the   newer    generation   tried    as  laboriously  to 
quench   that  light   in  carnal   brutality.^ 

II 

The  second  half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  if  it  had 
little  faith  in  religious  ardour  or  in  the  voice  of  the 
higher  imagination,  had  an  eager  interest  in  scientific 
research.  The  arrested  work  of  the  Renaissance  was 
resumed.  England,  isolated  for  a  time  by  her  internal 
troubles,  from  the  European  movement,  now  took  a 
foremost  place  in  investigation  and  discovery.  Men  of 
letters  were  caught  into  the  general  stream.  Cowley 
saluted  the  Royal  Society  with  a  greeting  of  cheer,  and 
made  his  propositions  for  the  advancement  of  experi- 
mental philosophy.  Evelyn  was  one  of  the  earliest 
fellows  of  the  Society,  and  in  1672  became  its  secretary. 
Butler,  although  he  leant  upon  the  understanding  as  his 
^  "  Satire  upon  the  licentious  age  of  Charles  II." 


286  Samuel  Butler 

crutch,  had  too  low  an  estimate  of  human  powers  to  hope 
that  the  mind  of  man  could  range  through  untried 
regions.  Here  also  he  perceived  a  revolt  agaiust  good 
sense  and  sobriety  of  judgment ;  here  also  were  vain 
pretenders  and  impostors  :  here  were  hypocrites  of  the 
intellect ;  here  were  the  inventors  of  a  novel  cant. 
The  bounds  of  genuine  knowledge — so  Butler  held — 
are  narrow  ;  let  us  admit  our  ignorance  of  what  lies 
beyond  our  tether ;  let  us  occupy  our  understanding 
to  some  profit  with  such  modest  truths  as  are  accessible. 
In  the  zealots  of  science  he  recognised  such  foes  of 
human  intelligence  as  Swift  found  in  his  ''Academy 
of  Lagado  "  ;  the  rest  are  not  madmen  but  self-interested 
knaves. 

It  was  a  desolating  outlook  on  the  world  ;  religion, 
morals,  politics,  the  search  for  scientific  truth  were  alike 
the  possession  of  madmen,  knaves,  and  dupes  ;  every- 
where the  pretender  was  enthroned  ;  everywhere  good 
sense  suffered  violence  and  outrage.  Even  in  literature 
the  innovations  made  in  the  name  of  reason  were 
essentially  irrational.  The  subjugation  of  the  several 
species  of  poetry  to  arbitrary  rules  derived  from  other 
ages  and  other  countries  was  another  form  of  unreason ; 
the  ridiculous  aping  of  French  fashions  was  a  fantastic 
departure  from  the  old  common  sense  of  England.  The 
new  school  of  critics  were  literary  Puritans,  who,  pro- 
fessing a  stricter  code  than  that  of  nature,  were  really 
debasers  of  wit ;  they  carried  things  before  them  by  the 
audacity  of  their  nonsense  ;  they  were  fierce  inquisitors 
of  the  new  law  and  doctrine ;  or,  if  in  themselves 
contemptible,  still  like  malicious  insects  they  could  sting. 


Samuel  Butler  287 

Yet  Butler  clung  to  reason ;  lie  remained  loyal  to 
his  central  faith — the  faith  in  human  intelligence.  He 
did  not  aim  at  construction  or  reconstruction  ;  that,  he 
believed,  would  come  naturally  of  itself,  if  only  reason 
had  once  again  its  legitimate  play.  Meanwhile,  for  his 
own  part,  might  he  not  contribute  something  to  the  cause 
of  good  sense  by  an  onset  against  the  entrenchments  of 
error  ?  The  heavy-shotted  battery  of  argument  delivers 
projectiles  which  sink  into  the  earthworks  and  do  little 
damage  ;  might  they  not  be  captured  by  an  escalade  of 
laughter  ?  No  one  had  a  more  vivid  perception  of  the 
ridiculous  than  Butler,  no  one  had  a  gift  like  his  for 
the  illustration  of  absurdity  by  ingenious  analogies.  Of 
that  genial  feeling  for  the  laughable  which  is  founded 
on  a  sympathy  with  the  abiding  infirmities  of  human 
nature,  of  that  humour  which  lies  close  to  pathos,  the 
humour  of  his  master  Cervas^es,  he  had  little  or  none. 
His  wit  was  intellectual,  a  malice  of  the  brain,  a  light- 
armed  auxiliary  of  the  reason,  as  Butler  himself  conceived 
it.  The  proper  sphere  of  wit,  he  says,  lies  somewhere 
between  truth  and  those  diverc^ences  from  the  straio^ht 
line  of  truth  which  we  call  error  or  falsehood.  Wit 
constantly  detects  and  exposes  the  departure  from  truth, 
and  exists  only  by  its  unfailing  reference  to  right  reason. 
Though  wit  may  seem  to  incline  to  falsehood,  it  does  so 
only  to  give  intelligence  of  the  truth  ;  "  for  as  there  is  a 
trick  in  arithmetic  by  giving  out  a  false  number  to  find 
a  true  one,  so  wit  by  a  certain  sleight  of  the  mind  delivers 
things  otherwise  than  they  are  in  nature  by  rendering 
them  greater  or  less  than  they  really  are,  which  is  called 
hyperbole,  or  by  putting  them  into  some  other  condition 


2  88  Samuel  Butler 

than  nature  ever  did.  .  .  .  But  when  it  employs  those 
things  which  it  borrows  of  falsehood  to  the  benefit  and 
advantage  of  truth  .  .  .  it  is  of  excellent  use,  as  making 
a  deeper  impression  into  the  minds  of  men  than  if  the 
same  truths  were  delivered  plainly."  ^  Butler  here  uses 
the  word  "  wit  "  in  the  extended  sense  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  including  what  we  should  call  the  work  of  the 
imagination,  but  it  includes  also  that  wit  in  the  narrower 
sense  which  characterises  his  own  writings.  Ridicule, 
therefore,  should  be  his  weapon.  But  the  laughter 
which  he  desired  to  evoke  was  not  the  laughter  of  hio^h 
spirits,  nor  that  laughter,  closely  allied  to  pity,  which 
smiles  at  the  deep  incongruities  of  human  nature  ;  it 
was  laughter  of  the  intellect,  which  triumphs  in  the 
illumination  of  truth  by  the  exposure  of  folly. 

An  excellent  example  of  Butler's  method,  on  a 
miniature  scale  as  compared  with  his  long  mock-heroic, 
may  be  seen  in  his  satire  on  the  scientific  movement 
of  the  time.  "■  The  Elephant  in  the  Moon "  is  a 
criticism  of  the  spirit,  the  methods,  the  rash  hypo- 
theses, the  crude  theorising  —  as  they  appeared  to 
Butler — of  the  members  of  the  Royal  Society.  The 
Society  was  new,  and  Butler  did  not  love  novelties. 
It  aimed  at  the  extension  of  knowledge  in  provinces, 
some  of  which  were  seemingly  remote  from  human 
life ;  and  Butler  suspected  all  attempts  to  be  wise 
above  what  is  granted  to  the  man  of  average 
good  sense.  As  he  distrusted  the  inner  light  of 
the    religious    enthusiast,    so    he    distrusted     the     am- 

1  Reflections  upon   Reason   in   Butler's    "Genuine    Remains,"   1759, 
vol.  i.  p.  394. 


Sam  uel  Butler  289 

bitious  conjectures  of  the  philosophers.  As  religion 
had  its  contending  sects  and  factions,  so  had  science  ; 
and  as  the  religious  sects  had  their  jargon,  so  there 
was  a  jargon  of  the  scientific  sects.  An  observer 
of  men  and  a  critic,  holding  aloof  alike  from  the 
assemblages  of  the  ignorant  and  the  learned,  he 
nourished  a  deep  suspicion  of  the  schwdrTYierei  both 
of  religion  and  philosophy  ;  he  believed  that  these 
gatherings  heated  men's  natural  folly,  set  up  a  state 
of  unwholesome  fermentation,  and  engendered  mon- 
strosities of  nonsense  as  strange  as  those  that  swarm 
in  the  slime  of  African  rivers.  Truth,  he  held,  is 
to  be  found,  if  at  all,  by  the  solitary  thinker ;  co- 
operative effort  only  pieces  or  piles  together  the 
fragments  of  absurdity  which  lie  ready  at  hand  for 
every   fool   to    seize. 

The  members  of  Butler's  learned  society  one  summer 
night  agree  to  explore  the  moon  with  their  telescope, 
and  to  record  in  their  transactions  the  phenomena 
which  have  been  observed.  One  after  another  the 
philosophers  approach  the  eye-piece  of  the  instrument. 
The  first,  who  is  known  to  be  the  wisest  in  solving 
impossibilities,  perceives  that  the  lunar  population 
are  actively  engaged  in  civil  war ;  an  aristocracy, 
possessed  of  luxurious  cellars,  eight  miles  in  depth, 
are  opposed  by  a  rude  peasantry  exposed  to  the  torrid 
rays  of  the  sun.  The  second  philosopher  applying  his 
nose  to  the  optic  glass — for  has  he  not  proved  that 
the  nose  is  an  excellent  substitute  for  the  visual  oro-an? 
— observes  the  progress  of  the  internecine  strife.  The 
third    perceives   with    astonishment   that   from    one   of 

T 


290  Samuel  Butler 

the  contending  armies  an  elephant  has  broken  loose. 
Of  a  sudden  the  elephant  is  seen  to  race  across  the 
whole  surface  of  the  satellite,  and  in  a  moment  he 
is  gone.  Rival  hypotheses  are  confidently  put  forwanl 
to  account  for  the  phenomenon.  While  the  discussion 
proceeds,  certain  foot-boys,  attendants  on  the  sages, 
are  amusing  themselves  with  the  instrument,  and 
notice  some  object  moving  in  the  tube.  A  modest 
man  of  science,  not  yet  wedded  to  theory,  forms  his 
own  conjecture,  and  presently  verifies  it  by  discovering 
a  mouse  imprisoned  between  the  glasses  of  the  telescope. 
But  is  he  qualified  to  consider  a  question  involving  the 
nature  of  mice  ?  The  further  investigation  is  claimed 
by  an  eminent  specialist  who  has  devoted  his  life  to  the 
study  of  vermin.  He  urges  that  bare  truth  is  mean 
and  unworthy  of  a  learned  corporation ;  they  are 
members  of  a  joint-stock  scientific  company,  and  like 
other  speculators  their  business  is  to  impress  the  public 
imagination  : 

If  nothing  else  but  truth  we  allow, 
^   'Tis  no  great  matter  what  we  do. 
^   For  truth  is  too  reserved  and  nice 

To  appear  in  mixed  societies  ; 

Delights  in  solitary  abodes, 

And  never  shows  herself  in  crowds  ; 
(    A  sullen  little  thing,  below 

All  matters  of  pretence  and  show. 

In  which  opinion  all  agree  ;  for  it  is  surely  a  nobler 
task  to  create  things  like  truth  than  to  ascertain  mere 
facts.  Some  still  swear  by  the  elephant  ;  a  few 
suspend  judgment ;  a  third  party  is  in  favour  of 
deciding   the   question   by    ballot ;     a    fourth    proposes 


Samuel  Butler  291 

to  unmount  and  open  the  tube.  Finally,  this  last 
is  accomplished,  when  the  inhabitants  of  the  moon, 
a  prodigious  swarm  of  flies  and  gnats,  make  their 
escape,  and  presently  the  impostor  of  a  mouse  issues 
from  his  trap.  The  real  discovery,  for  those  who  are 
wise  enough  to  be  humbled  is  this — 

That  those  who  greedily  pursue 
Things  wonderful  instead  of  true, 

Hold  no  truth  worthy  to  be  known 

That  is  not  huge  and  overgrown, 

And  explicate  appearances 

Not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  please. 

In  vain  strive  nature  to  suborn, 

And,  for  their  pains,  are  paid  with  scorn. 

Butler,  we  have  reason  to  suppose,  designed  to  treat 
the  problems  and  experiments  of  the  Royal  Society 
in  a  more  extended  satire,  but  only  a  short  fragment 
seems  to  have  been  written.  It  recites  the  various 
subjects  of  the  philosophers'  learned  speculations — 
matters  celestial  and  matters  terrestrial ;  they  hope 
to  predict  the  appearance  of  the  next  meteor,  to 
ascertain  whether  fishes  sleep,  whether  grass  be  green 
and  snow  be  white  in  themselves  or  only  as  the  rays 
of   light    impinge    upon    them  : 

And  in  the  braying  of  an  ass 
Find  out  the  treble  and  the  bass, 
If  mares  neigh  alto,  and  a  cow 
A  double  diapason  low. 

An  intellectual  revolution  more  important  to  human- 
ity at  large  than  the  political  revolution  of  England 
was  proceeding  in  Butler's  day.  He  had  no  sense  of 
its    true   significance.       The   old   truths   of  human   life 


292  Samuel  Butler 

and  human  conduct  were  enough  for  him  ;  they  had 
all  been  ascertained  long  since ;  why  pervert  our  in- 
telligence with  vain  ambitions  ? 

In  close  kinship  with  *'  The  Elephant  in  the  Moon  " 
is  Butler's  unfinished  "  Satire  upon  the  Imperfection 
and  Abuse  of  Human  Learning."  Considering  man 
as  ruled  and  guided  partly  by  nature  and  partly 
by  custom,  he  would  attempt  a  study  of  our  natural 
imperfections  and  our  acquired  errors.  He  values 
that  education  most  which  invigorates  and  does  not 
overload  the  intellect.  Like  Comenius  and  Milton 
and  Cowley  he  condemns  the  excessive  study  of  words 
to  the  neglect  of  the  study  of  things.  One  who  can 
express  "  no  sense  at  all  "  in  several  languages  is 
esteemed  as  more  learned  than  he  who  can  speak 
the  strongest  reason  in  his  own.  Foreign  rarities 
may  be  bought  at  too  high  a  price.  Even  the  models 
of  ancient  eloquence  do  not  afford  the  best  training 
for  an  English  speaker ;  let  him  use  his  own  language 
■to  good  purpose  and  all  will  be  well.  Butler  pleads 
against  the  terrors  of  the  school-room — rod  and  whip 
— and  urges  the  use  of  sport  as  essential  to  mental 
clearness  and  energy.  Without  intervals  of  rest  and 
recreation  a  man  is  "  never  broad  awake."  A  mind 
of  native  vigour  occupied  v/ith  reality,  and  sporting 
between  whiles  to  recover  its  spring  and  resilience — 
such  is  Butler's  ideal.  He  recurs  to  his  persistent 
inought  of  the  folly  of  those  who  attempt  to  pass 
beyond  the  limits  which  are  set  to  human  knowledge. 
All  the  industry  of  philosophers  who  delight  to  stretch 
their  talents  towards  things  beyond   their  reach  is  only 


Samuel  Bjitler  293 

an  industry  to  err.  Yet  precisely  in  proportion  to  a 
man's  abuse  of  his  faculties  lie  grows  bold  and  confident. 
Such  theorists 

Can  tell  us  easy  how  the  world  was  made, 
As  if  they  had  been  brought  up  to  the  trade, 

When  all  their  wits  to  understand  the  world 
Can  never  tell  why  a  pig's  tail  is  curled. 

And  the  motive  alike  of  pseudo-philosophy  and  erudite 
pedantry  is  only  a  pitiful  self-conceit.  If  a  scholar  cannot 
seize  the  finer  spirit  and  vital  power  of  knowledge,  what 
is  learning  but  the  index  to  a  book  ?  Such  men  may 
have  travelled  with  the  eye  over  many  printed  pages  ; 
but  what  if  they  never  ''  bring  the  world  and  books 
together "  ?  Yet  without  this  they  can  never  rightly 
judge  either  of  books  or  of  the  world. 

Ill 

To  find  in  brief  Butler's  indictment  of  the  Puritan  we 
may  turn  to  his  Pindaric  ode  "  Upon  a  Hypocritical 
Nonconformist!'  Satire,  which  has  in  it  necessarily 
much  of  the  critical  spirit,  may  at  times  become  l3^rical ; 
the  most  impressive  example  in  literature  is  Hugo's 
volume,  "  Les  Chatiments."  Butler's  genius  was  not 
that  of  a  singer ;  he  was  nothing  if  not  critical.  The 
ode  is  a  winged  form  of  poetry,  and  Butler's  verse  in 
general  trots  upon  the  highway.  If  the  ode  be  applied 
to  the  purposes  of  satire,  it  should  be  winged  with 
indignation  and  have  something  of  the  eagle's  infallible 
pounce  upon  its  prey.  A  certain  power  of  kindling  his 
passions  lay  in  Butler's  understanding,  but  his  heat  is 


294  Samuel  Butler 

not  the  prophetic  flame  of  moral  indignation,  it  is 
criticism  heightened  by  anger.  Butler  reduces  into  a 
few  stanzas  a  view  of  Restoration  Puritanism,  as  seen 
from  outside.  Naming  his  own  pitiful  ignorance  and 
vanity  by  exalted  titles — spiritual  gifts  and  divine  out- 
goings— the  Puritan  falls  down,  in  reverence  before 
himself  and  is  guilty  of  the  grossest  form  of  idolatry. 
By  a  pretence  of  zeal  for  gospel  truths  he  justifies  every 
folly  and  barbarism  ;  he  has  discovered  a  new  method  of 
sanctifying  nonsense  and  crime.  AVith  spurious  dis- 
tinctions of  right  and  wrong  he  sophisticates  the  simplicity 
of  the  human  conscience ;  where  self-interest  or  self-will 
prompts  him,  he  grants  ingenious  dispensations,  and 
compensates  these  by  a  series  of  vexatious  prohibitions 
in  things  indifferent.  He  draws  his  life  and  influence 
from  the  weak,  the  ignorant,  the  credulous,  the  vain,  the 
factious — "  for  trouts  are  tickled  best  in  muddy  water." 
He  cries  down  human  learning  and  plain  morals  ;  he 
carries  the  day  by  the  sheer  impudence  of  self-assertion. 
He  sets  himself  deliberately  against  the  laws  of  his 
country,  and  gladly  accepts  fine  or  imprisonment  as  the 
best  trading  advertisement  of  a  saint.  What  are  his 
prayers  but  legal  suits  prosecuted  against  his  Creator,  or 
wrangles  and  disputes  with  the  Deity  ?  With  zealous 
agonies  and  groans  he  *' drowns  the  nonsense  in  the 
noise."  He  is  intolerant  in  matters  of  opinion,  imperi- 
ously orthodox,  a  persecutor  when  he  has  the  power,  the 
follower  not  of  Christ  but  of  Mahomet,  propagating  his 
creed  with  fire  and  sword.  In  Butler's  poem  there  is 
little  that  can  be  called  burlesque ;  it  is  a  vigorous 
statement  of  the  case  against  Puritanism  by  one  who 


Samuel  Butler  295 

applied  a  strong  and  clear-sighted  intelligence  to  the 
study  of  a  phenomenon  which  intelligence  alone  could 
not  fully  explore  or  rightly  interpret. 

The    form    of    the    Pindaric   ode    was    ill    suited    to 
Butler's  genius,  and  he  attempted  it  only  on  two  or  three 
occasions.    The  ode  tends  to  the  generalisations  of  passion 
or  of  thought ;  and   Butler  is  happiest  when  he  particu- 
larises, or  conveys  his  maxim  in  some  hard  and  definite 
image.       The  irregular  ode   should   move   to  some   in- 
calculable law,  like  that  which  determines  the  rise  and 
fall    of   waves    in    a    broken   sea  ;   that   verse    of   which 
Butler  was  an  accomplished  craftsman  is  made  up  of  a 
series  of  calculated  jolts.      His  octosyllable  is  not  that 
written  by  Fletcher  and  the  youthful  Milton,  varied  with 
exquisite  surprises  of  accent  and  pause,  passing  at  will 
from  an   iambic  to  a  trochaic  movement,  now  loitering 
and  now  speeding  on  its  way.     Butler's  verse  is  c6nceived 
in  couplets,  and   in  such  couplets  as  admit  of  no  grace, 
no  dignity,  no  fluctuant  motion,  no  breezelike  stay  or 
breezelike  sally.      To  produce  variety  and  to  effect  sur- 
prise he  trusts  to   the  special  device  of  which   he  was 
master — the    ingenious    grotesqueness    of   his    rhymes ; 
that  is,  he  arranges  his  surprise  where   it  will   be  most 
obtrusive,  where  it  will  force  itself  on  the  attention  ;  it 
is  never  a  gentle  surprise  of  beauty  ;  it  is  a  hard  surprise 
of  cleverness,   often    of  clever   jugglery.      If  we   could 
forget   that   "  pulpit    drum   ecclesiastic "   was   quoted   a 
thousand  times  before  and  has  been  quoted  a  thousand 
times  since  it  served   the  nightly   uses  of  the  ancient 
bencher  of  Steele's  Trumpet  Club,  and  if  we  were  to 
read  the  line  for  the  first  time,  we  should  wonder  for  an 

'^^    ^^%. 

OF  THE      ^y 

IVERSITY 

OF 


296  Samuel  Butler 

instant  how  the  master  of  rhymes  could  pull  himself 
out  of  the  difficulty  which  he  had  himself  created  ;  finding 
the  verse  follow  pat,  "  Was  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a 
stick,"  we  should  smile  only  the  more  because  the  accent 
is  misplaced,  and  applaud  the  effrontery  of  Butler's 
legerdemain  the  more  vehemently  because  the  jugglery 
is  undisguised. 

In  the  case  of  "  The  Elephant  in  the  Moon  "  Butler 
made  a  singular  experiment ;  he  wrote  the  entire  poem 
in  two  forms,  his  characteristic  octosyllables  and  the 
longer  decasyllabic  couplet,  preserving  in  both  versions 
the  same  rhymes.  It  is  as  if  he  would  demonstrate  the 
superior  efficiency  for  his  own  purposes  of  the  lively 
vehicle  which  he  preferred ;  the  longer  lines  are  padded 
with  superfluous  adjectives  and  nouns  ;  everything  that 
has  to  be  said  fits  into  the  octosyllabic  verse ;  the  rhyme, 
which  is  the  crack  of  the  satiric  whip,  comes  quick, 
and  signifies  that  the  flagellation  is  proceeding  briskly. 
Butler  thought  less  continuously  than  in  fragments ; 
a  spark,  a  flash,  a  snap,  and  the  little  electrical  sting  or 
twitch — all  are  the  affair  of  an  instant.  A  great  obser- 
ver,  he  kept  a  commonplace  book  in  which  to  enter  his 
comments  on  life  and  society,  and  those  ingenious  similes 
in  which  his  ideas  crystallised.  Not  a  few  passages  of 
"  Hudibras  "  were  probably  constructed  by  m'oving  side 
by  side  fragments  that  had  originally  existed  apart  from 
one  another. 

When  the  first  part  of  "  Hudibras  "  appeared,  at  the 
close  of  1662  or  the  opening  of  1663,  Butler  was  over 
fifty  years  of  age  ;  he  had  already  accumulated  a  store 
of  observations  and  reflections  on  his  times.     The  second 


Sa  muel  Butler  297 

part  followed  in  1664;  the  third  part,  a  belated  rear- 
guard, emerged  to  view  after  an  interval  of  fourteen 
years.  The  heroical  epistle  from  Hudibras  to  Sidrophel, 
printed  at  the  close  of  the  second  part  in  1674,  does 
not  form  an  integral  part  of  the  poem  ;  the  second 
canto  of  the  third  part  is  an  interpolation  of  the  author 
unconnected  with  the  story  ;  it  has  much  in  common 
with  certain  prose  pieces  to  be  found  among  his  ''Genuine 
Remains" — the  "Two  Speeches  made  in  the  Rump 
Parliament  when  it  was  restored  by  the  Officers  of  the 
Army  in  the  year  1659,"  and  ''A  Speech  made  at  the 
Rota,"  in  which  the  confusion  of  contending  parties  is 
exhibited  in  arguments  assigned  to  their  several  repre- 
sentatives. In  writing  these  harangues,  parliamentary 
and  military,  it  is  not  improbable  that  Butler  had  the 
"Satire  Menip^e  "  before  his  mind. 

The  immediate  and  extraordinary  vogue  of  "Hudibras" 
is  attested  by  passages  which  have  been  often  cited  from 
the  Diary  of  Pepys.  A  lover  of  books,  Pepys  was  re- 
luctant to  squander  the  coin  which  he  collected  and 
counted  with  so  much  diligence  and  satisfaction.  He 
lamented  his  half-crown  expended  on  silly  abuse  of  the 
Presbyter  Knight  going  to  the  wars,  and  was  glad  to 
transfer  the  book  for  eighteenpence  to  an  acquaintance. 
But  the  celebrity  of  "  Hudibras  "  compelled  him  to  buy 
a  second  copy  ten  days  later,  only  to  find  that  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  think  it  witty.  On  the  appearance 
of  the  second  part  Pepys  prudently  looked  it  over  in 
Paul's  Churchyard,  and  decided  to  borrow,  not  to  buy. 
It  was  impossible  to  escape  from  a  book  "  now  in  the 
greatest  fashion."      He  confesses  that  he  could   not  see 


298  Samuel  Butler 

where  the  wit  lay ;  yet  it  became  inevitable  that  he 
should  again  part  with  his  coin  ;  when  the  King  carried 
*'  Hudibras "  in  his  pocket  and  quoted  its  couplets  at 
table,  it  was  the  part  of  loyalty  to  bow  before  the  Court 
favourite. 

Heroic  satire  is  resonant  with  heroic  indignation ;  it 
has  in  it  something  of  prophetic  faith  and  fire.  "Cry 
aloud  ;  for  he  is  a  god  ;  either  he  is  talking,  or  he  is 
pursuing,  or  he  is  in  a  journey,  or  peradventure  he 
sleepeth,  and  must  be  awaked " ;  the  scorn  of  Elijah 
arises  not  merely  from  sight  of  the  ineffectual  madness 
of  Baal's  votaries,  but  from  a  lofty  assurance  of  the 
power  of  Jehovah,  whose  servant  he  himself  is.  The 
satirist  of  the  Restoration  was  not  among  the  sons  of 
the  prophet ;  there  was  no  fire  from  heaven  which  he 
hoped  to  call  down ;  there  is  more  of  intellectual  con- 
tempt than  of  spiritual  wrath  in  his  satire.  We  feel 
that  any  enthusiasm,  however  pure  and  generous,  would 
have  appeared  a  form  of  madness  to  Butler.  If  in  all 
his  writings  we  could  find  one  outbreak  of  noble  charity, 
we  should  value  at  a  higher  rate  the  criticism  of  his 
remorseless  intelligence. 

The  romantic  epic  finds  its  themes  in  war  and  love. 
Butler's  mock-heroic  selects  the  same  themes  ;  but  the 
military  operations  are  directed  against  a  bear^leader 
and  his  attendant  crew — Crowdero,  the  wooden-legged 
fiddler ;  Talgol,  the  butcher ;  Magnano,  the  tinker ; 
Trulla,  the  tinker's  female  follower ;  Cerdon,  the 
cobbler ;  Colon,  the  ostler ;  such  is  the  army  opposed 
to  the  champion  of  Puritan  morality  ;  and  the  amorous 
siege  is  laid  by  the  ungainly  Knight  rather  against  the 


Samuel  Butler  299 

purse  than  the  person  of  a  not  unwary  widow.  The 
supernatural  element  proper  to  romantic  narrative  is 
furnished  by  the  astrologic  impostures  of  Sidrophel  and 
of  Whackum,  his  assistant  cheat.  The  action  is  trivial 
and  tedious ;  Butler's  invention  worked  among  ideas, 
not  among  incidents.  The  hero  and  his  squire  attack 
the  bear-baiting  rabble  ;  after  an  illusive  victory  they 
are  routed ;  Hudibras  is  placed  in  the  parish  stocks ; 
the  widow  visits  him  in  his  distress,  releases  him,  and 
requires  as  the  test  of  his  true  love  a  self-inflicted 
flagellation.  War  is  waged  between  the  Knight  and  cer- 
tain celebrants  of  the  Skimmington,  a  procession  in  which 
a  virago  and  her  subjugated  husband  are  led  in  derisive 
triumph.  Hudibras  and  his  squire,  bedaubed  with  filth 
and  rotten  eggs,  take  to  flight.  They  consult  the 
astrologer,  and  the  interview  closes  with  another  battle- 
royal.  The  astrologer  feigns  death  ;  Hudibras  flies  to 
his  lady-love,  leaving  the  squire,  as  he  supposes,  to  be 
dealt  with  by  the  officers  of  justice.  The  squire  betrays 
to  the  widow  his  master's  feigned  passion  and  feigned 
flagellation ;  she  treats  her  lover  to  a  masquerade  of 
furies  and  hob-goblins,  which  is  followed  by  a  cudgel- 
ling. Hudibras  at  last  invokes  the  aid  of  the  law 
against  his  coy  mistress,  and  with  this  the  story  closes. 
There  is  little  in  the  paltry  narrative  that  assists  the 
poem  as  a  satire  directed  against  the  political  and 
religious  parties,  of  Eepublican  England ;  the  action 
rather  tends  to  reduce   the  satire  to  a  drollery. 

Yet  the  way  in  which  we  should  regard  "  Hudibras  " 
is  not  as  a  drollery,  but  as  a  work  of  serious  intention, 
put  into  a  jest  of  portentous  dimensions.       Butler,  as 


300  Samuel  Butler 

we  have  seen,  though  possessed  of  great  intellectual 
vivacity,  was  not  a  man  of  gay  temper.  His  outlook 
upon  the  world  was  the  reverse  of  joyous.  He  rendered 
homage  to  human  reason  before  all  else,  while  he  was 
far  from  sanguine  in  estimating  the  capacity  of  our 
intelligence.  He  put  his  whole  mind,  as  far  as  it  could 
find  literary  expression,  into  this  grotesque  poem.  He 
wrote  it  with  all  his  wit,  and  with  seriousness  behind  the 
laughter.  It  is  a  plea  on  behalf  of  what  he  thought 
his  age  most  needed — good  sense.  The  purpose  of  the 
whole  is  to  put  laughter  to  use  in  the  cause  of  reason. 
Tlie  chief  enemies  of  human  reason  in  his  time,  it 
seemed  to  Butler,  were  the  religious  enthusiasts  and 
the  pretenders  to  religion  who  had  set  the  State  of 
England  in  an  uproar,  who  had  overthrown  the  con- 
stitution, prohibited  innocent  pleasures,  set  up  a  new 
tyranny,  denounced  learning,  exalted  ignorance,  sophis- 
'  ticated  morals,  and  who,  after  all  their  follies  and  their 
\crimes,  had  ended  by  a  fierce  internecine  strife  of  party 
Vith  rival  party,  and  of  sect  with  opposing  sect.  It  is 
only  by  thus  viewing  the  poem  as  written  by  a  serious 
thinker,  somewhat  embittered  by  the  course  of  events, 
that  we  can  extract  its  true  meaning.  But  at  the  same 
time  we  must  accept  "Hudibras"  as  a  drollery;  and  the 
progress  of  the  whole  poem  is  determined  partly  by  its 
graver  purpose,  and  partly  by  its  author's  intellectual 
pleasure  in  the  detection  of  absurdity. 

Butler's  collection  of  ''  Cbaracters  "  in  prose  forms  a 
long  gallery  of  portraits,  which  were  meant  to  be  types, 
each  one  as  hard  in  line  and  colour  as  we  may  suppose 
those  other  portraits  of  his  to  have  been,  which,  though 


Samuel  Butler  30 1 

they  attracted  the  attention  of  Samuel  Cooper,  found 
their  final  use  in  stopping  broken  windows.  The  open- 
ing pages  of  "  Hudibras " — and  these  are  the  pages 
least  forgotten  and  least  forgetable — present  two  char- 
acters in  verse,  those  of  Sir  Hudibras  and  Ralph  his 
squire.  The  rhyme  forbids  us  to  doubt  that  some  of 
the  features  of  Butler's  "  valiant  Mameluke  "  were 
studied  from  the  Presbyterian  colonel,  justice  of  the 
peace,  and  member  of  Parliament,  Sir  Samuel  Luke,  in 
whose  house  the  taciturn  observer  had  found  employ- 
ment for  a  time.  Bunyan's  biographer,  Dr  Brown, 
thinks  it  probable  that  when  the  future  author  of  "  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress  "  was  a  soldier  in  the  Parliamentary 
ranks,  he  served  under  Sir  Samuel,  the  chief  military 
leader  of  his  county.  Luke  was  important  enough  to 
be  in  communication  with  Cromwell,  Fairfax,  and  other 
Parliamentary  chiefs.  His  Letter-book  still  exists  in 
manuscript,  and  gives  a  reader  the  impression,  says  Dr 
Brown,  that  he  was  a  man  of  shrewd  observation,  of 
unquestionable  valour,  of  godly  life,  and  of  "  considerable 
breadth  of  humour  and  humanness."  But  Dr  Brown  is 
mistaken  if  he  supposes  that  Sir  Samuel's  appreciation 
of  good  feeding,  good  wine,  and  worldly  gear  differentiates 
him  from  the  fat  Knight  of  Butler's  mock-heroic.  It 
concerns  us  little  to  identify  a  living  original  of  Hudi- 
bras. In  Sir  Samuel  Luke's  house  Butler  must  needs 
have  had  abundant  opportunity  for  studying  the  Puritan 
species,  and  out  of  the  infirmities  of  many  individuals 
he  probably  compounded  his  grotesque  ideal.  The 
general  notion  of  master  and  man  riding  forth  on  their 
adventures,  and  the  enjoyment  taken  in  repeated  drub- 


302  Samuel  Butler 

bings  is  all  that  can  be  said  to  be  common  to  Butler 
and  Cervantes  ;  no  contrast  can  be  greater  than  that 
which  Butler's  gross  hero  presents  to  the  romantic 
Knight  of  La  Mancha ;  Sancho  Panza's  homely  good 
sense  is  equally  far  removed  from  the  pretended  inner 
light  of  Ralpho ;  and  the  discreet  widow  wooed  by  Sir 
Hudibras  in  no  feature  resembles  the  country  wench  of 
Don  Quixote's  romantic  devotion.  In  all  essentials 
Butler  is  wholly  original. 

In  his  portraits  of  the  Presbyterian  knight  and  the 
Independent   squire    Butler   dwells   rather    upon   intel- 
lectual  than  moral  qualities.      It  is  the  perversions  of 
the    understanding   which    he    studies    in    his    scornful 
analysis,  and  seems  to  regard   as  prime  sources  of  evil. 
Hudibras  is  a  man   of  narrow  brain ;   if  he  has  wit,  as 
his  admirers  allege,  he  is  ''  very  shy  of  using  it."     Upon 
this  narrow  brain  has  been  heaped  the  learning  of  the 
schools,  and  with  what  result  ?      His  knowledge  of  the 
tongues — Greek,  Latin,  Hebrew — only   enables  him  to 
be   a  pedant.      His   skill   in   logic   qualifies   him  to   be 
disputatious,  to  sophisticate  the  truth  by  spurious  dis- 
(      tinctions,  to   palter  with    his   conscience.      His  rhetoric 
(     is  of   service   in    dignifying   with    pompous    titles    the 
(    absurdities    of  his   speech.      His   mathematics  instructs 
/     him  to  measure  geometrically  a  pot  of  ale,  or  to 

Kesolve  by  sines  and  tangents  straight 
If  bread  or  butter  wanted  weight. 

His  philosophy  supplies  him  with  mysterious  terms 
to  misapply,  or  assists  him  in  mistaking  his  fantastic 
notions   for  the   truth   of  things.      His  Puritan  school- 


Samuel  Butler  303 

divinity  has  made  him  a  master  in  twisting  theological 
ropes  of  sand,  and  in  solving  unprofitable  questions  in 
the  wrong  way.  His  religion  of  the  Covenant  and  the 
cause  is  not  that  of  peace,  but  of  pike  and  gun.  The 
Church  reformation  at  which  he  aims  is  one  which  must 
still  be  doing,  never  done — 

As  if  Religion  were  intended 

For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended. 

His  devotion  lies  in  perverse  antipathies;  he  seems  to 
worship  God  for  spite  ;  by  proscribing  what  is  innocent 
he  compensates  the  indulgence  of  his  peculiar  sins — 

As  if  hypocrisy  and  nonsense 

Had  got  the  advowson  of  his  conscience. 

In  brief — for  this  is  the  sura  of  the  matter — he  repre- 
sents the  dominance  of  discursive  and  disputatious 
unreason  in  temper,  in  intellect,  and  in  will. 

But  unreason  may  be  intuitive  rather  than  discursive. 
Ralph,  the  squire,  a  sectary  of  a  rival  school,  by  birth 
a  tailor,  owes  less  to  human  learning  misused  than  to 
immediate  inspiration.  He  has  received  special  gifts 
and  new-lights  from  heaven,  which  cost  no  pains  of 
industry  or  study.  He  supplements  his  inspiration  by 
a  certain  lore  in  all  things  mystical  and  supernatural,  in 
all  things  which  do  not  admit  of  comprehension  by  the 
intellect.  Hudibras  acquires  the  learning  of  the  schools, 
and  renders  it  worse  than  barren.  Ralph,  with  a  bolder 
flight  of  folly,  soars  into  the  region  of  cloudy  nonsense  ; 
master  and  man  are  agreed  in  deserting  the  modest  way 
of  good  sense,  and  in  employing  their  powers,  whether 
derived  from  spurious  learning  or  false  new- lights,  to  the 
satisfaction  of  their  lusts  and   oreed.      The  poem   is  a 


304  Samuel  Butler 

satire  or  a  libel  of  Puritan  ideals ;  but  do  one  can  study 
the  history  of  the  time  without  acknowledging  that  there 
were  materials  at  hand  apt  for  the  satirist ;  and  in 
pleading  for  reason  and  sense  Butler  was  not  a  common 
libeller  of  religion. 

We  summon  all  our  fortitude  to  endure  the  rough- 
and-tumble  incidents  of  the  narrative,  the  melees,  the 
cudgellings,  the  flights  of  stones  and  rotten  eggs.  But 
the  dialogues  between  the  two  chief  worthies,  knight  and 
squire,  the  love-making  by  ratiocination  of  Hudibras, 
the  widow's  argumentative  entrenchments  and  sallies 
make  amends.  As  for  bear-baiting  it  is  demonstrated 
by  Hudibras  to  be  a  form  of  strife  which  serves  neither 
the  Covenant  nor  the  good  old  Cause;  it  results  neither 
in  the  sequestration  of  the  property  of  malignants  nor  in 
the  seizure  of  church -lands  by  the  saints.  The  pre- 
cedents for  the  practice  are  anti-christian  and  heathenish 
— Indian,  Egyptian,  Roman.  Ralph  is  of  the  same 
opinion,  and  with  a  first,  secondly,  and  thirdly  proves 
that  the  name  is  unscriptural  and  the  thing  is  human 
and  idolatrous — as  much  so,  indeed,  as  Presbyterian 
synods  (for  Ralph  does  not  spare  a  thrust  against  his 
master's  friends),  which  have  much  in  common  with 
the  popular  sport.  Hudibras,  in  addressing  the  rabble, 
recalls  to  their  minds  those  purer  days,  the  memory  of 
which  is  wronged  by  this  profane  and  carnal  recreation, 
blessed  days  when  tinkers  bawled  aloud  to  settle  Church 
discipline,  and 

Oyster-women  locked  their  fish  up 

And  trudged  away  to  cry  "  No  Bishop  "  ; 

days  when  the  gospel-preaching  minister  invented  honied 


Samuel  Butler  305 

tones  to  win  the  women,  thereby  to  draw  in  the  men,  or 

directed  Providence  what  it  ought  to  do,  or  informed  the 

Deity  of  news   arrived   by  the   latest  express,  or,  acting 

as   plenipotentiary    of  the  saints,    made    overtures   and 

propositions  to  heaven, 

Such  as  the  army  did  present 
To  their  creator,  Parliament. 

The  fiddler  and  his  instrument  fall  into  the  power  of 
the  reforming  knight  ;  conquest,  as  Ealpho  explains, 
cannot  give  a  right  to  the  property  of  the  defeated  party, 
but  the  wicked  never  had  a  title  to  worldly  possessions  ; 
the  saints  must  inherit  the  earth  and  the  fiddle. 

When  the  tide  of  battle  has  turned,  and  master  and 
man  are  in  the  parish  stocks,  Hudibras  comforts 
himself  with  cold  scraps  of  philosophy ;  his  legs  are 
prisoners,  but  his  mind  is  free ;  it  is  perturbations 
alone  that  can  enchain  the  spirit ;  drubbed  soundly 
he  has  been,  but  as  the  field  of  battle  is  for  the 
slain  a  stately   bed   of  honour, 

He  that  is  beaten  may  be  said 
To  lie  in  honour's  truckle-bed. 

Whereupon  the  captives  beguile  their  time  of  durance 
with  a  learned  disputation  of  Ralph's  pronouncement 
that  Presbyterian  Synods  are  mystical  bear-gardens. 
Bears,  argues  Hudibras,  go  on  four  legs ;  synod-men 
have  but  two ;  it  may  be  admitted  that  teeth  and 
nails  are  common  to  both  species ;  but  can  the  Inde- 
pendent disputant  prove  that  synod-men  have  tails  ? 
Moreover  bears  are  licked  into  shape,  but  it  is  of  their 
own  will  and  inclination  that  Presbyters  become  what 
they  are.      Ralph's  retort  convicts  the  knight  of  mere 

u 


3o6  Samuel  Butler 

human  learning — learning  that  cobweb  of  the  brain 
which  encumbers  gifts  and  darkens  the  inner  light. 
And  Hudibras  responds  by  proving  that  learning  and 
Presbytery  are  worlds  apart  from  each  other. 

The  coy  widow  advances,  recognises  her  imprisoned 

lover 

Not  by  his  individual  whiskers, 
But  by  his  dialect  and  discourse, 

and  the  conversation  passes  from  ecclesiastical  to  amorous 

topics.       Hudibras,    while    frankly   admitting    that    his 

affections  are  inflamed  not  by  her  person  but  by  her 

better  part — goods  and  lands — rises  to  poetic  raptures 

of  which  his  mistress  makes  small  account : — 

She  that  with  poetry  is  won 

Is  but  a  desk  to  write  upon, 

And  what  men  say  of  her,  they  mean 

No  more  than  on  the  desk  they  lean. 

Let  the  lover's  sincerity  be  brought  to  a  test ;  she  does 

not  exact  any  of  those  cruel  martyrdoms  which  lovers 

profess  with  pride ;    all  she  exacts  is  that  for  her  sake 

he  will  try  the  toughness  of  his  back  with   one  simple 

scourging  ;  there  is  much  virtue  in  whipping  ;  there  are 

noble  precedents.     The  fat  knight  ardently  swears  assent. 

But,  with  time  granted  for  reflection,  he  perceives  that 

the  moment  of  castigation  may  lawfully  be  postponed ; 

and,  after  a  night's  repose,  in   that  dewy  hour 

When  like  a  lobster  boiled,  the  morn 
From  black  to  red  began  to  turn, 

certain  scruples  arise  in  his  mind.  The  act  to  which 
he  has  pledged  himself  is  carnal ;  to  be  forsworn  might 
be  the  lesser  offence.  Ralpho  luminously  explains  that 
the  strife  between  soul  and  body  should  be  of  a  mystical 


Samuel  Butler  307 

nature ;    our  vessel,   the   body,   is  sanctified  ;    it   suffers 
enough  at  the  hands  of  the  wicked;   self-inflicted  penance 
is  Papistical,  and  is  therefore  sinful.     As  for  forswearing, 
saints  may  claim,  and  often  have  claimed,  a  dispensation; 
oaths  are  only  words,   a  whipping  is  an   act,   and  the 
weaker  should  yield  to  the  stronger  ;  the  devil  to  serve 
his  turn  can  tell  the  truth  ;   should  saints  prove  inferior 
to   Satan,  and   be   unable  to  tell  an  advantageous  lie  ? 
Besides  for  a  saint  to  break  an  oath  is  really  a  form  of 
self-denial ;  the   examples  of  devout  perjury  are  many 
and  recent;  oaths  are  meant  to  restrain  the  unrighteous, 
not  to  check  the  liberty  of  a  free-born,  conscience.     Fin- 
ally the  widow  is  one  of  the  wicked,  and  to  the  wicked 
no  faith   is  due.      Hudibras   admits  the  truth   of  these 
views  which,  however,  partake  of  the  nature  of  mysteries, 
not  to  be  communicated   to  profane  men.      An  oath,  so 
far  as  it  is  an  oath,  remains  itself  intact  even  when  it  is 
formally  broken,  just  as  the  law  remains  law  though  it 
be  violated  ;  indeed   law  is  of  no  force  until  its  efficacy 
is  proved  by  its  violation  ;  and  so  an  oath  receives  its 
truest  honour  by  a  breach.     Admit  that  there  is  a  court 
of  conscience  ;   like  other  courts  it  requires  a  vacation. 
Still  there  would  be  a  convenience  in  being  able  to  affirm 
that  the  flagellation  had   been   inflicted  ;   would   Ealph 
kindly  submit  his  own   back,  and   allow   his   master  to 
take  the  whipping  by  proxy?    Ealph  is  disinterested,  but 
he  cannot  be  the  occasion  of  sin  ;  how  should  he  permit 
a  Christian  knight  to  maltreat  the  saints  ?     So  proceeds 
the  discussion  ;  Butler's  intellectual  ingenuity  serves  him 
better  than  moral  vehemence  could  have  done,  in  winding 
his  way  through  the  tortuous  paths  of  sophistical  casuistry. 


3o8  Samuel  Butler 

We  follow  the  hero  through  his  later  astrological 
adventures  and  debates  with  a  growing  sense  of  fatigue. 
The  catechetical  examination  in  the  first  principles  of 
morality  and  religion  through  which  Hudibras  is  put  by 
the  disguised  Ralpho  rewards  the  reader  of  the  first 
canto  of  the  closing  part.  "  Pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic  " 
has  hardly  delighted  the  lovers  of  grotesque  rhymes 
more  than  the  question  and  answer  on  the  infallible 
method  of  theological  illumination  has  delighted  the 
lovers   of  straightforward   reasons : 

What  makes  all  doctrines  plain  and  clear  ? 
About  two  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
And  that  which  was  proved  true  before 
Prove  false  again  ?     Two  hundred  more. 

But   hardly   less    effective    a    thrust   is    the   answer    of 

Hudibras    when     his    catechist    inquires     why    human 

morality   is   an    offence   to    the   saints : 

'Cause  grace  and  virtue  are  within 
Prohibited  degrees  of  kin  ; 
And  therefore  no  true  saint  allows 
That  they  be  suffered  to  espouse  : 
For  saints  can  need  no  conscience 
That  with  morality  dispense  ; 
As  virtue's  impious  when  'tis  rooted 
In  nature  only,  and  not  imputed. 

No  wonder  that  Butler's  satire  was  the  favourite 
piece  of  wit  with  the  courtiers  of  the  Restoration. 
It  provided  them  with  a  quiver  of  epigrams  to  be 
shot  against  all  who  professed  a  stricter  way  of  morals 
or  a  more  serious  spirit  of  religion  than  that  of  White- 
hall. It  seemed,  no  doubt,  to  some  of  them  a  storehouse 
of  arguments  in  favour  of  licentious  living.  But  they 
abused  Butler's  gift  to  his  time,  they  failed  to  under- 


Samuel  Btitler  309 

stand  his  spirit,  and  they  left  him  to  die  in  poverty. 
The  Duke  of  Buckingham — Dryden's  Zimri — on  one 
occasion  was  engaged  by  Wycherley  to  meet  Butler 
with  a  view  to  rendering  him  a  service  at  court.  The 
meeting  took  place,  but  as  ill-Iuck  would  have  it,  on 
the  moment  a  follower  of  the  Duke  tripped  past  with  a 
brace  of  ladies  ;  instantly  his  Grace  was  gone,  having 
other  business  to  pursue  than  the  patronage  of  letters. 
Once,  and  only  once,  in  his  collection  of  characters 
Butler  presents  not  a  type  but  an  individual ;  it  is 
Dryden's  Zimri.  He  is  "  as  inconstant  as  the  moon  "  ; 
he  is  "governed  by  some  mean  servant  or  other  that 
relates  to  his  pleasures  "  ;  he  has  "  dammed  up  all  those 
lights  that  Nature  made  into  the  noblest  prospects," 
and  has  ''  opened  other  little  bliud  loopholes  backward." 
It  was  not  for  such  spirits,  whose  laughter  is  the  crack- 
ling of  thorns  under  a  pot,  that  Butler  wrote.  His 
"  Hudibras "  is  not  directed  against  the  decencies  of 
morality,  but  against  the  follies  and  frauds,  as  the 
satirist  conceived  them,  of  pretended  piety  ;  it  is,  in  its 
own  way,  a  plea  for  reason  and  good  sense.  Incapable 
as  Butler  was  of  comprehending  the  true  significance  of 
religious  passion,  his  work  remains  as  a  document  of 
value  to  the  historian  of  the  English  mind,  a  document 
which  tells  us  what  aspect  Puritanism  presented  to  a 
man  of  keen  observation,  who  viewed  it  wholly  from  j 
outside,  and  who  feared  the  madness  of  extremes. 

What  personal  influences  went  to  form  Butler's 
mind  we  cannot  tell.  It  is  stated  that  in  early  life 
he  was  acquainted  with  Selden,  and  even  acted  as  that 
great  scholar's  amanuensis.      The   authority  of  age   and 


3 1  o  Samuel  Butler 

the  authority  of  learning — learning  wielded  with  judg- 
ment and  penetrated  by  intelligence — must  needs  have 
made  Selden  a  power  with  such  a  youth  as  Samuel 
Butler.  Did  materials  for  investio^ation  exist  we  migrht 
find  that  Selden  was  for  a  time  the  master  of  his  mind. 
With  a  broader  intellect  and  a  more  generous  temper 
than  Butler's,  Selden  had  a  rationalising  turn  of  thought, 
an  independence  of  parties  in  state  and  church,  a  shrewd- 
ness, a  felicity  in  witty  metaphor,  a  zest  in  exposing 
the  ignorance  and  folly  of  adversaries  which  must  have 
won  admiration  from  the  young  observer  of  men.  As  we 
read  his  "  Table-Talk "  we  seem  to  see  Butler  listening 
with  a  smile  upon  his  silent  lips.  ''  They  [divines]  talk 
(but  blasphemously  enough)  that  the  Holy  Ghost  is 
president  of  their  General  Councils  ;  when  the  truth  is, 
the  odd  man  is  still  the  Holy  Ghost."  "  We  look  after 
religion,  as  the  butcher  did  after  his  knife,  when  he  had 
it  in  his  mouth."  "Religion  is  made  a  juggler's  paper; 
now  'tis  a  horse,  now  'tis  a  lanthorn,  now  'tis  a  boat, 
now  'tis  a  man.  To  serve  ends,  religion  is  turned  into 
all  shapes."  In  such  sayings  as  these  perhaps  we 
approach  one  of  the  sources  of  "  Hudibras "  not  less 
important  than  the  "Satire  Menipee "  or  "Don 
Quixote." 


X 

TRANSITION  TO  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


The  interval  between  the  publication  of  the  second  part 
of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  and  that  of  Swift's  "  Tale 
of  a  Tub  "  is  only  twenty  years.  Yet  in  passing  from 
the  one  to  the  other  we  seem  to  enter  another  country  ; 
we  are  sensible  of  an  altered  climate.  And  this  is  not 
merely  because  the  individual  genius  of  the  one  writer 
stands  so  wide  apart  from  that  of  the  other.  The 
questions  which  occupied  the  minds  of  the  younger 
generation  were  new  ;  the  way  of  regarding  them  was 
different;  the  temper  in  which  they  were  dealt  with 
was  a  different  temper.  The  entire  view  of  life,  both 
individual  and  social,  had  undergone  a  considerable 
[nodification.  In  place  of  absolute  dogma  and  un- 
qualified conclusions,  we  find  a  sense  that  truth  is 
relative ;  in  place  of  passion  driving  men  to  extremes, 
we  lind  a  spirit  of  compromise,  a  willingness  to  accept 
provisional  arrangements. 

In  politics  the  doctrine  of  the  divine  right  of  kings 
and  the  doctrine  of  the  divine  right  of  the  saints  to 
rule  the  earth  were  replaced  by  constitutional  expedients. 
At  the  Revolution  the  crown,  as  Hallam  expresses  it, 
gave  recognizances  for  its  good  behaviour,  and  the  several 

3" 


3 1 2      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

parts  of  the  Constitution  were  kept  in  cohesion  by  the 
tie  of  a  common  interest  in  its  preservation.  The  Revolu- 
tion was  based  not  on  absolute  ideas,  but  on  political 
expediency.  One  party  in  the  State  might  now  cry  for 
improvement ;  the  other  might  plead  for  conservation  ; 
each  miofht  revile  the  other  with  all  the  bitterness  of 
party  spirit ;  but  both  were  agreed  in  the  maintenance 
of  the  constitution.  The  reigns  of  Anne  and  the  first 
two  Georges  formed  a  period  of  comparative  tranquillity 
in  the  constitutional  history  of  England.  At  one  time 
the  authority  of  the  crown  and  of  the  executive  seemed 
to  be  enlarged ;  at  another,  the  power  of  the  people  and 
their  representatives ;  in  the  main  a  certain  balance  was 
maintained.  "Happy  is  the  nation,"  exclaims  Mr  Leslie 
Stephen,  '^  which  has  no  political  philosophy,  for  such  a 
philosophy  is  generally  the  offspring  of  a  recent,  or  the 
symptom  of  an  approaching  revolution.  During  the 
quieter  hours  of  the  eighteenth  century,  Englishmen 
rather  played  with  political  theories  than  seriously 
discussed  them."  The  political  philosophy  of  Locke, 
founded  partly  on  utilitarian  ethics,  partly  on  the  theory 
of  a  social  compact,  is  a  doctrine  of  compromise.  But 
it  served  well  as  a  provisional  resting-place — it  gave  the 
word  for  a  much-needed  halt. 

The  temper  of  moderation,  reasonableness,  detach- 
ment from  the  violence  of  party,  appears  conspicuously 
in  the  writings  of  Halifax,  the  literary  merits  of  which, 
Macaulay  justly  said,  entitle  their  author  to  a  place 
among  English  classics.  The  book  which  Halifax  found 
the  most  entertaining  in  the  world  was  that  translated 
by  Cotton  in   1685 — the   "Essays"  of  Montaigne.     A 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Ce7itury      313 

constant  lover  of  Montaigne  may  be  a  sceptic ;  he  can 
hardly  be  a  bigot.  It  has  been  shown  that  Halifax's 
most  characteristic  pamphlet,  "  The  Character  of  a 
Trimmer,"  was  a  retort  upon  an  article  of  Roger 
L'Estrange,  which  appeared  in  ''  The  Observator "  of 
December  3,  1684.  A  trimmer,  says  L'Estrange,  is 
an  advocate  for  liberty  of  practice  in  the  State  and  for 
liberty  of  conscience  in  the  Church — "  a  man  of  project 
every  inch  of  him,  and  one  that,  for  the  ease  of  travellers 
toward  the  New  Jerusalem,  proposes  the  cutting  of  the 
broad  way  and  the  narrow,  both  into  one."  ^  To  explain 
and  justify  the  position  of  the  trimmer  in  Church  and 
State  was  a  task  which  precisely  suited  the  genius  of 
Halifax. 

He  would  not  add  to  the  race  of  scribblers  were  it 
possible  to  let  the  world  alone;  but  when  madmen  in 
the  two  extremes  agree  to  make  common-sense  treason, 
he  cannot  but  speak.  Names  of  reproach  are  invented 
in  order  that  those  who  cannot  frame  an  argument  may 
have  something  which  their  dull  malice  can  throw  at 
the  heads  of  those  they  do  not  like.  But  in  reality  the 
word  "  trimmer "  in  its  rio^ht  meanino:  '•'  might  do  as 
much  to  put  us  into  our  right  wits  as  '  Whig '  and 
'  Tory '  have  done  to  put  us  out  of  them."  In  a  boat 
one  part  of  the  company  may  choose  to  weigh  it  down 
on  this  side,  while  another  would  make  it  lean  as  much 
to  the  contrary ;  but  there  may  possibly  be  a  third 
opinion,  that  the  boat  should  go  even,  without  endanger- 
ing the  passengers  ;  they  who  hold  this  heretical  opinion 

^  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Sir  George  Savile,  Bart.,  first  Marquis  of 
Halifax,  by  H.  C.  Foxcroft,  IL,  273. 


3 1 4      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

will  set  themselves  to  trim  the  boat,  and  will  therefore 
be  accounted  criminals. 

The  trimmer  venerates  law,  but  he  also  honours 
liberty.  He  accepts  and  approves  of  monarchy,  but 
he  recognises  a  natural  right  of  self-preservation  in  a 
people,  and  would  have  a  king,  feeling  himself  part  of 
a  whole  made  up  of  king  and  subjects,  reign  in  his 
people's  hearts  rather  by  love  than  fear.  The  trimmer 
perceives  that  no  government  is  free  from  imperfections, 
and  would  rather  keep  our  own  with  all  its  faults  than 
suffer  it  to  be  shattered  to  pieces. 

He  recognises  that  religion  is  not  only  good  in  itself, 
but  needful  for  a  state  ;  nor  among  religions  is  that  of- 
England  the  least  to  be  esteemed.  Among  the  graces 
of  religion,  as  our  trimmer  bears  in  mind,  charity  holds 
a  place.  He  would,  if  it  were  possible,  draw  back  by 
ways  of  gentleness  and  love  those  sheep  that  stray  from 
the  Church's  fold.  He  fears  that  in  some  of  the  Anglican 
clergy  there  may  be  "  a  too  great  eagerness  to  extend  the 
ecclesiastical  jurisdiction."  He  thinks  that  a  nation  will 
hardly  be  mended  by  principles  of  religion  where  morality 
is  made  a  heretic  ;  "  and  therefore,  as  he  belie veth  devo- 
tion to  be  misplaced  when  it  getteth  into  a  conventicle, 
he  concludeth  that  loyalty  is  so  too  when  it  is  lodged  in 
a  drunken  club."  He  holds  that  even  on  the  right  side 
some  knowledge  may  fitly  go  along  with  zeal.  He  has 
no  relish  for  the  impertinent  wanderings  of  those  who 
pour  out  long  prayers  upon  the  congregation,  yet  he 
considers  that  too  great  restraint  may  be  put  upon  men 
whom  God  and  nature  have  blessed  with  a  happier 
talent,   a  powerful    utterance,   and,  withal,   good  sense, 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     315 

beside  whom  the  regulation  "  Pray-wees "  look  like  so 
many  statues  or  men  of  straw.  As  for  the  other  re- 
cusants, we  must  distinguish  between  the  Popish  priest, 
witb  whom  it  is  impossible  to  make  a  treaty,  since  he 
has  pinned  himself  to  a  principle  which  has  no  mean, 
and  the  laity,  who  are  not  pledged  to  extremes,  who 
have  an  interest  in  the  realm,  and  often  the  feelings  of 
true  Englishmen.  With  these  latter  our  trimmer  would 
deal  discreetly  and  even  gently ;  nor  would  he  enact 
against  them  any  passionate  laws.  Trimmer  as  lie  is, 
he  has  one  idolatry,  which  he  is  willing  to  confess  :  "  He 
doth  not  worship  the  sun,  because  it  is  not  peculiar  to 
us ;  it  rambleth  about  the  world,  and  is  less  kind  to 
us  than  it  is  to  other  countries.  But  for  the  earth  of 
England,  though  perhaps  inferior  to  that  of  many  places 
abroad,  to  him  there  is  divinity  in  it,  and  he  would 
rather  die  than  see  a  spire  of  English  grass  trampled 
down  by  a  foreign  trespasser."  The  conclusion  of 
Halifax's  pamphlet  sums  up  the  whole  in  a  series  of 
statements,  in  which  the  writer's  seriousness  is  heightened 
by  touches  of  humour.  He  ventures  to  assert  "  That  our 
climate  is  a  Trimmer  between  that  part  of  the  world 
where  men  are  roasted  and  the  other  where  they  are 
frozen  ;  that  our  Church  is  a  Trimmer  between  the  frenzy 
of  fanatic  visions  and  the  lethargic  ignorance  of  Popish 
dreams  ;  that  our  laws  are  Trimmers  between  the  ex- 
cesses of  unbounded  power  and  the  extravagance  of 
liberty  not  enough  restrained ;  that  true  virtue  hath 
ever  been  thought  a  Trimmer,  and  to  have  its  dwelling 
in  the  middle  between  the  two  extremes ;  that  even 
God  Almighty  Himself  is  divided  between  His  two  great 


3 1 6      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

attributes,  His  mercy  and  His  justice.  In  such  company, 
our  Trimmer  is  not  ashamed  of  his  name,  and  willingly 
leaveth  to  the  bold  champions  of  either  extreme  the 
honour  of  contending  with  no  less  adversaries  than 
nature,  religion,  liberty,  prudence,  humanity,  and  com- 
mon sense." 

The  fierce  passions  which  encountered  one  another  in 
the  civil  wars  of  the  seventeenth  century  were  in  a 
measure  assuaged,  or  they  had  contracted  themselves 
within  the  bounds  of  party  strife  under  the  overarch- 
ing unity  of  an  established  constitution.  Reason,  not 
perhaps  in  its  highest  deliverances  but  in  its  meanings 
of  temporary  expediency,  had  been  applied  to  public 
life,  and  the  result  was  a  conciliation  which  made 
political  order  and  political  progress  possible,  and  party 
warfare  not  quite  intolerable.  A  conciliation  was  also 
effected  in  the  religious  life  of  the  nation.  Here  also 
reason  was  applied  to  circumstances,  not  perhaps  in  the 
form  of  a  theory  four-square  and  coherent,  but  in  a  way 
that  worked  sufficiently  well  for  practical  purposes. 
The  Toleration  Act  exempted  from  penalty  such  persons 
as  took  the  oath  of  allegiance  and  subscribed  the  de- 
claration against  Popery ;  it  secured  from  vexatious 
interference  such  ministers  of  religion  as  could  bring 
themselves  to  accept  not  the  thirty-nine  articles,  but 
thirty-six,  or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  thirty-five  and 
a  half  As  Locke  provided  the  political  Revolution 
with  a  theory  of  compromise  which  was  its  justification 
for  the  intelligence,  so  in  his  Letters  on  Toleration  he 
supplied  a  doctrine,  not  invulnerable  in  its  logic  but 
eminently  workable,  of  religious  liberty.      He  held  that 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 


o 


fn 


in  religion  and  morals  certitude  is  attainable,  but  that 
the  bounds  of  certitude  in  matters  of  theology  are 
narrow.  His  Christian  faith  was  sincere,  but  he  divested 
religion  of  mystery,  he  suspected  enthusiasm,  he  reduced 
the  essentials  of  belief  to  the  single  tenet  of  Christ's 
Messiahship,  he  attached  more  importance  to  conduct 
than  to  the  acceptance  of  creeds  and  catechisms,  he 
placed  the  basis  of  belief  not  in  the  authority  of 
Churches,  of  Fathers,  of  Councils,  but  in  the  reason 
of  the  individual,  seeking  and  accepting  whatever  shows 
itself  to  be  reasonable.  He  would  exclude  from  tolera- 
tion those  who  are  themselves  intolerant,  those  who 
profess  allegiance  to  a  foreign  power,  and  those  who, 
denying  the  existence  of  a  God,  are,  as  he  conceived, 
lost  in  universal  scepticism  as  to  the  order  of  the  world 
and  of  human  society,  and  are  thereby  disqualified  for 
the  duties  of  citizenship.  In  his  interpretation  of  the 
Bible  the  reasonable  temper,  characteristic  of  Locke's 
entire  habit  of  thought,  is  strikingly  manifested.  The 
sacred  writings  were  not  for  him,  as  for  the  theologians 
of  a  preceding  generation,  a  vast  treasury  of  elaborated 
dogma  ;  they  did  not  constitute  for  him,  as  for  Bunyan, 
a  living  book  of  magic,  from  which  darted  forth  fiery 
sentences  of  terror  or  words  of  irresistible  consolation. 
He  tried  to  place  himself  in  the  position  of  each  writer, 
to  follow  the  writer's  track  of  thought,  to  put  to  use  the 
aids  of  history  ;  he  distrusted  the  inner  light  of  private 
inspiration  or  enthusiasm  ;  he  recognised  the  misleading 
parallax  of  personal  passion. 

The   better   spirit   of    that    movement    which    trans- 
formed   our    literature     in    the    interval    between    the 


318      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

Commonwealth  and  the  age  of  Queen  Anne  found  its 
chief  representative  in  Locke,  whose  aims  were  not 
those  of  literary  ambition,  but  the  aims,  large  and  yet 
modest,  of  a  simple  seeker  for  truth.  It  was  a  move- 
ment of  concentration,  of  retirement  within  a  limit 
intellectual  and  emotional.  Truth  was  now  to  be 
pursued,  if  at  all,  not  by  any  winged  flight  into  the 
empyrean,  but  by  careful  treading  of  the  substantial 
earth.  The  passions  were  to  be  retracted  within  the 
bounds  of  what  is  reasonable./  To  ascertain  facts,  to 
observe  phenomena,  to  analyse  known  combinations  of 
things,  seemed  better  than  to  manipulate  mysterious 
words  or  to  start  from  magnificent  assumptions.  '  The 
''Essay  on  Human  Understanding"  had  its  origin  in 
a  discussion  which  took  place,  probably  in  the  winter  of 
1670-71,  between  Locke  and  a  few  friends  concerning  the 
principles  of  morality  and  of  revealed  religion.  There 
were  systems  of  ethics  and  vast  treatises  on  theology  in 
abundance  for  those  who  could  find  satisfaction  in  them. 
Locke  could  find  no  such  satisfaction.  He  must  first 
ascertain  what  knowledge  really  means,  what  are  the 
bounds  of  certainty,  what  is  the  field  of  probability ; 
and  in  order  to  do  this  he  must  look  into  the  mind  of 
man,  bringing  no  preconceived  theory,  relying  on  no  pre- 
tentious phrases,  but  viewing  the  human  understand- 
ing as  a  phenomenon  to  be  scrutinised  and  analysed 
like  any  other  fact  in  nature  :  ''I  thought  that  the  first 
step  towards  satisfying  several  inquiries  which  the  mind 
of  man  was  very  apt  to  run  into  was  to  take  a  survey  of 
our  own  understanding,  examine  our  own  powers,  and 
see  to  what  things  they  were  adapted.      Till  that  was 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     319 

done    I    suspected   that   we   began   at   the   wrong   end, 
and    in    vain    sought   for    satisfaction    in    a    quiet    and 
secure  possession  of  the  truth  which  most  concerned  us, 
whilst  we   let  loose  our  thoughts  into  the  vast  ocean   of 
Being,   as  if    that   boundless   extent   were   the   natural 
and    undoubted    possession   of   our    understanding.   .    .   . 
These  men  extend  their  inquiries  beyond  their  capacity, 
and    letting    their    thoughts    wander    into    the    depths, 
wherein   they  can   find   no  sure  footing,  'tis  no  wonder 
that  they  raise  questions  and  multiply  disputes,  which 
never  coming  to   any  clear  resolution,  are  proper  only 
to  continue  and   increase  their  doubts,  and   to  confirm 
them    at    last    in    perfect   scepticism.       Whereas    were 
the    capacities   of    our    understanding   well    considered, 
the   extent  of  our  knowledge  once  discovered,  and  the 
horizon  found  whicli   sets   the  bounds  between  the  en- 
lightened and  the  dark  part  of  things,  between  what  is 
and  what  is  not  comprehended   by  us,  other  men  would 
perhaps  with  less  scruple  acquiesce  in  the  avowed  ignor- 
ance of  the  one,  and  employ  their  thoughts  and  discourses 
with  some  advantage  and  satisfaction  in  the  other."      In 
these  sentences  we  have  in  brief  the  spirit  of  Locke's 
effort  towards  truth,  and  the  spirit  which  was  to  preside 
over  much   of  the  work  of  the  eighteenth  century.      It 
was   a   spirit   of  sobriety,  of  courageous   moderation  ;  a 
spirit   opposed    to   the    dogmatism   of   philosophers  and 
theologians ;  a  spirit  no  less  opposed  to  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  sectaries.      From  authority,  from  the  tyranny  of 
words,  from  the  visions  of  an  inner  light,  Locke  turned 
to  a  patient  examination  of  facts.      His  programme  was 
modest,   yet    without    any   inordinance   of  ambition   he 


320      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

became  for  successive  generations  an  acknowledged  legis- 
lator of  thought.  It  would  be  difficult,  or  rather  it 
would  be  impossible  to  reduce  the  philosophy  of  Locke 
to  a  perfectly  coherent  system  ;  but  he  aimed  less  at 
becoming  the  builder  of  a  system  than  at  investigating 
facts.  His  polemic  against  innate  ideas,  his  empirical 
turn  of  thought  did  much  to  reduce  the  pretensions 
of  philosophy,  to  deprive  it  of  a  certain  mysterious 
grandeur,  and  to  bring  it  nearer  to  the  general  intelli- 
gence. The  "  Essay  on  Human  Understanding  "  was  an 
eminent  example  of  the  application  of  reasonableness 
— though  not  perhaps  of  reason  in  the  highest  sense 
of  the  word — to  the  subjects  of  speculation. 

Locke's  early  training  had  been  in  a  Puritan  house- 
hold, where  the  boy  was  carefully  instructed  by  his  father. 
At  Oxford  his  college  was  presided  over  by  that  great 
systematiser  of  Puritan  theology,  John  Owen.  But  the 
vounsf  student  had  small  satisfaction  in  what  seemed  to 
him  the  trifling  and  the  sophistry  of  the  schools.  The 
minds  of  many  men  were  turning  away  from  the  elabor- 
ate systems  of  the  schoolmen  of  the  Reformation  and 
from  the  mystic  illumination  of  religious  enthusiasts  to 
the  investigation  of  nature.  Locke  was  eager  in  the 
study  of  chemistry  ;  he  filled  his  commonplace  books 
with  notes  on  meteorology  ;  he  made  careful  inquiries 
in  the  phenomena  of  bodily  diseases.  If  the  student 
of  literature  is  forced  to  confess  that  the  years  from 
the  Restoration  of  Charles  II.  to  the  accession  of  Queen 
Anne  were  marked  by  a  decline  in  the  imaginative 
genius  of  England — for  Milton  and  Bunyan  belong 
to  the  formative  influence  of  an  earlier  period — there 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     321 

is  compensation  in  the  fact  that  these  years  were 
eminent  in  the  history  of  science.  While  the  courtiers 
plunged  into  a  mad  whirl  of  sensual  pleasure,  and  the 
wits  were  shamelessly  gay,  or  grossly  saturnine,  or  spuri- 
ously exalted,  the  serious  mind  of  England  held  its  own 
course.  If  the  reaction  from  Puritanism  hurried  the 
shallower  spirits  of  the  time  into  an  extreme  opposite  to 
that  of  the  saints,  and  for  many  the  extravagance  of  the 
pietist  was  succeeded  by  the  extravagance  of  the  voluptu- 
ary, so  that  an  age  of  unreason  might  seem  to  be  followed 
by  a  counter-age  of  unreason,  in  truth  the  main  tendency 
of  the  second  half  of  the  seventeenth  century  was  not 
towards  the  senses  but  towards  reasonableness,  and  the 
bases  of  a  great  development  of  science  were  securely  laid. 
In  that  remarkable  chapter  of  Macaulay's  History  in 
which  he  describes  the  state  of  England  in  1685,  he 
puts  forward  a  theory — already  old  in  the  days  of 
Addison's  "Spectator"^ — to  account  for  the  passionate 
interest  of  the  time  in  scientific  investigations.  The 
revolutionary  spirit  in  politics  was  dammed  up  by 
the  settlement  of  the  Restoration  ;  that  spirit,  ceasing 
to  operate  in  politics,  began  to  exert  itself  with  un- 
precedented vigour  and  hardihood  in  every  depart- 
ment of  physics  :  "  The  transfusion  of  blood,  the 
ponderation  of  air,  the  fixation  of  mercury,  succeeded 
to  that  place  in  the  public  mind  which  had  lately 
been  occupied  by  the  controversies  of  the  Rota. 
Dreams  of  perfect  forms  of  government  made  way 
for  dreams  of  wings  with  which  men  were  to  fly 
from   the   Tower   to   the    Abbey,   and   of  double-keeled 

1  See  "Spectator"  No.  262. 
X 


322      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

ships  which  were  never  to  founder  in  the  fiercest 
storm.  All  classes  were  hurried  along  by  the  pre- 
vailing sentiment.  Cavalier  and  Roundhead,  Church- 
man and  Puritan  were  for  once  allied.  Divines, 
jurists,  statesmen,  nobles,  princes  swelled  the  triumph 
of  the  Baconian  philosophy."  It  is  perhaps  true  that 
the  excitement  of  the  public  mind  caused  by  the 
great  political  struggle  roused  men's  faculties  to  exer- 
tion in  many  fields.  But  the  scientific  movement 
of  the  time  was  a  European,  not  merely  an  English, 
phenomenon.  In  1660  the  Royal  Society  came  into 
existence  ;  two  years  later  it  received  its  charter.  But 
the  Royal  Society  of  England  was  a  younger  sister 
of  the  Experimental  Academy  of  Florence,  and  only 
by  a  little  the  elder  sister  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences 
at  Paris.  In  truth  natural  and  experimental  science 
had  advanced  to  a  point  which  rendered  a  sudden 
expansion  possible,  and,  as  it  were,  inevitable.  Crude 
observations,  chance  -  medley  experiments,  fantastic 
theorisings,  though  these  might  still  be  found,  had 
in  large  measure  given  place  to  regulated  methods 
and  reasonable  inference.  The  Restoration  of  mon- 
archy in  England,  and  the  check  to  revolutionary 
politics  exerted  no  influence  on  the  chemical  investiga- 
tions of  the  German  Becker  or  the  French  Lemery, 
on  Redi's  studies  at  Florence,  on  Malpighi's  anatomical 
inquiries  at  Pisa  and  Bologna,  on  Swammerdam's 
dissections  at  Amsterdam.  But  England  took  an 
active  and  a  distinguished  part  in  the  European  move- 
ment, and  a  power  at  once  enlarging  and  tranquillising, 
after    the    turmoils    of    politics    and    the    passions    of 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     323 

religious  strife,  lay  in  the  pursuit — patient  and  courage- 
ous— of  truth  as  presented  in  the  phenomena  and  the 
laws  of  the  external  universe.  The  comedies  of  Ether- 
edge  and  Sedley,  the  tragedies  of  Lee,  the  poetry  even 
of  Dryden  and  Otvvay  do  not  represent  the  best  mind 
of  England  in  their  day.  It  is  represented  on  the 
one  side  by  Locke,  in  his  faithful  and  laborious  inquiry 
into  the  facts  of  the  intellectual  and  moral  world,  and 
on  the  other  side  by  those  eminent  students  of  external 
nature  who  observed  and  collected,  who  arranged  and 
methodised,  who  rose  to  theory  from  a  basis  of  reality, 
who  revealed  the  laws  of  phenomena,  and  perceived  a 
cosmos  emerging  from  the  chaos  of  accident  and  of 
miracle.  The  roll  of  illustrious  names — Boyle,  Flam- 
steed,  Halley,  Willis,  Sydenham,  Eay,  Morison,  Wood- 
ward, Grew,  Newton — has  been  often  recited.  Such 
a  recital  is  indeed  inspiriting  to  the  student  of  science  ; 
for  the  student  of  literature  it  may  seem  of  little  im- 
portance. But  in  fact  its  importauce  is  great.  It  serves, 
in  the  first  place,  to  account  in  part  for  the  comparative 
barrenness  and  frivolity  of  the  literature  of  pleasure 
which  followed  the  Eestoration ;  that  literature  stood 
apart  from  the  higher  mind  of  England,  which  had 
been  drawn  away  in  another  direction.  It  serves,  again, 
to  account  in  part  for  the  claim  made  by  reason  and 
sense  to  control  imagination  in  the  literature  of  the 
early  eighteenth  century.  In  the  development  of  the 
critical  spirit  the  principles  of  the  understanding,  or 
what  were  held  to  be  such,  were  directly  applied  to 
literature.  "  Return  to  nature "  was  inscribed  upon 
the   banner    of    the    classical    school    no    less    broadly, 


324      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

though    with     a     different     meaning,    than     upon    the 
banner   of  the  romantic  school  a  hundred  years  later. 

II 

If  religion  was  to  hold  its  own  in  an  age  when  the 
understanding  became  the  leading  authority,  it  must 
be  shown  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  understanding  ; 
religion  must  be  rationalised.  ^  The  God  of  nature 
was  seen  as  the  first  cause  in  a  vast  and  orderly  chain 
of  causation  ;  He  was  the  President  in  a  constitutional 
system,  acting  through  general  laws,  which  formed, 
so  to  speak.  His  executive.  The  God  of  revelation 
must,  if  possible,  be  identified  with  the  God  of 
nature  ;  his  methods  must  bear  some  analogy  to  the 
methods  which  preside  over  the  constitution  and 
course  of  nature.  The  motives  to  a  religious  life 
must  be  exhibited  as  addressing  themselves  to  the 
rational  part  of  human  nature,  to  the  intelligence, 
the  common  sense,  the  prudence  of  men  ;  the  temper 
in  which  religion  is  set  before  men  must  be  a  temper 
of  reasonableness  and  moderation.  If  the  revelation 
of  Christ  be  an  intervention  of  the  supreme  Ruler 
of  the  world,  it  must  prove  its  divine  origin  by 
evidence  establishing  at  least  a  strong  probability  in 
its  favour  ;  miracles  and  prophecy  must  be  supported 
by  such  witnesses  or  such  historical  evidence  as  could 
be  tested  in  a  court  of  law  ;  Christian  doctrine  must 
justify  itself  as  consonant  with  man's  moral  nature, 
and  as  tending  to  promote  his  welfare.  Christianity 
must  appear  as  the  religion  of  good  sense.  "  He  that 
takes  away  reason  to  make  way  for  revelation,"  wrote 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     325 

Locke,  "  puts  out  the  light  of  both,  and  does  much- 
what  the  same  as  if  he  would  persuade  a  man  to 
put  out  his  eyes,  the  better  to  receive  the  remote 
light  of  an  invisible  star  by  a  telescope."  In  order 
to  retain  an  enlightened  intelligence  on  the  side  of 
Christianity,  it  might  be  well  to  place  no  emphasis 
on  any  distinctive  doctrines  which  seem  to  be  re- 
pugnant to  human  reason.  As  in  our  own  century 
the  Oxford  movement  has  held  many  persons — so  it 
is  alleged — within  the  Anglican  communion  by  its 
Catholic  exhibition  of  truth,  persons  who  otherwise 
must  have  found  satisfaction  for  their  spiritual  needs 
by  passing  over  to  the  Catholicism  of  Rome,  so  in 
the  eighteenth  century  an  attenuated  Christianity  was 
held  to  be  the  prophylactic  against  Deism.  It  is 
certain  that  Deism  was  deprived  of  much  of  its 
aggressive  force  by  the  tendency  of  Christian  writers 
to  pursue  a  via  media. 

Eobert  South  stands  midway  between  the  older  and 
the  newer  generation.  He  preached  good  sense  and 
good  morals  with  masculine  force,  but  he  was  not  a 
reconciler,  rather  he  was  an  unflinching  combatant, 
and  a  too  truculent  victor  ;  among  his  gifts  the  grace 
of  charity  can  hardly  be  reckoned  ;  he  sets  forth  his 
gospel  of  good  morals  with  great  intellectual  clearness 
and  energy,  but  rarely  with  what  we  understand  by 
unction.  The  supreme  faculty  of  the  soul,  he  tells 
us,  is  reason ;  the  state  of  grace  is  that  of  reason  grown 
adult,  reason  forsaking  the  childish  things  of  the  senses 
and  attaining,  through  Divine  assistance,  the  highest, 
that   is,    the   most    rational    happiness.     The    ways    of 


326      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

wisdom  are  ways  of  pleasantness  ;  and  therefore  "  such 
as  are  not  ways  of  pleasantness  are  not  truly  and  properly 
waj^s  of  religion."  He  that  thinks  to  expiate  a  sin  by 
going  barefoot  does  the  penance  of  a  goose  ;  if  our  re- 
ligion lies  no  deeper  than  the  skin,  self-scourging  may, 
indeed,  effect  a  great  improvement.  To  exhort  men  to 
be  religious  is  only  in  other  words  to  exhort  them  to  take 
their  pleasure — ''  a  pleasure  high,  rational,  and  angelical, 
...  a  pleasure  made  for  the  soul,  and  the  soul  for  that ; 
suitable  to  its  spirituality,  and  equal  to  all  its  capacities."  ^ 
South's  preaching  was  not  dry  or  cold;  through 
the  vigour  and  perspicacity  of  his  intellect,  aided  by 
the  power  of  a  strong  rhetoric,  he  rises  at  times  to  a 
kind  of  rational  enthusiasm.  New  lights,  sudden  im- 
pulses of  the  spirit,  extraordinary  calls,  irresistible 
motions,  are  only  the  whimsical  cant  of  the  ignorant ; 
yet  South  can  contemplate  the  greatness  and  strangeness 
of  the  future  beatific  vision,  marvelling  ^'  how  a  created 
eye  should  be  so  fortified  as  to  bear  all  those  glories 
that  stream  from  the  fountain  of  uncreated  light,  the 
meanest  expression  of  which  light  is  that  it  is  inex- 
pressible." He  has  no  toleration  for  the  ''  popular, 
rambling,  incoherent  stuff  (seasoned  with  twang  and 
tautology)  "  which  passes  for  moving  preaching — "  such, 
indeed,  as  a  zealous  tradesman  would  even  live  and  die 
under  ; "  but  he  can  speak  nobly  of  the  rational  illumina- 
tion which  carries  with  it  authority  :  "  The  sun  is  said 
to  rule  the  day,  and  the  moon  to  rule  the  night ;  but 
do   they   not   rule    them    only   by    enlightening    them? 

1  "The  Ways  of  Wisdom   are  Ways   of  Pleasantness,"  Sermons    I. 
p.  21  (ed.  1842). 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     327 

Doctrine  is  that  that  must  prepare  men  for  discipline  ; 
and  men  never  go  on  so  cheerfully  as  when  they  see 
where  they  go."  Our  religion,  he  declares,  is  a  religion 
that  dares  to  be  understood  ;  true  teaching  is  not  a  flow 
of  words,  nor  the  draining  of  an  hour-glass,  but  "  an 
effectual  procuring  that  a  man  comes  to  know  something 
that  he  knew  not  before,  or  to  know  it  better."  ^  As 
for  prayer,  it  also  is  a  reasonable  service  to  be  rendered 
with  premeditation  of  thought  and  brevity  of  expression. 
God  does  not  need  that  we  should  supply  Him  with 
a  notification  of  facts  ;  how  can  ignorance  inform 
omniscience  ?  Nor  will  He  be  wrought  upon  by 
rhetoric  and  pathetical  harangues ;  nor  is  He  to  be 
wearied  into  acquiescence  by  our  importunity  :  *'  men 
may  tire  themselves  with  their  own  prayers,  but  God 
is  not  to  be  tired.  The  rapid  motion  and  whirl  of 
things  here  below  interrupts  not  the  inviolable  rest  and 
calmness  of  tlie  nobler  beings  above.  While  the  winds 
roar  and  bluster  here  in  the  first  and  second  regions 
of  the  air,  there  is  a  perfect  serenity  in  the  third." 
Prayer  is  prevalent  because  it  is  the  fulfilling  of  that 
condition  upon  which  God  has  freely  promised  to  convey 
His  blessings.  Decency,  sense,  and  reason  are  expected 
in  our  prayers  ;  God  does  not  command  sanctified 
grimace,  solemn  wink,  or  foaming  at  the  mouth  ;  nor 
''  to  set  forth  our  prayers  with  dress  and  artifice,  to 
flourish  it  in  trope  and  metaphor,  to  beg  our  daily  bread 
in  blank  verse,  or  to  show  anything  of  the  poet  in  our 
devotions,"  Can  any  sober  person  think  it  reasonable 
that  the  public  devotions  of  a  congregation  should  be 
1  Sermon  on  "The  Duties  of  the  Episcopal  Function." 


328      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

''  at  the  mercy  of  a  pert,  empty,  conceited  holder-forth, 
whose  chief  (if  not  sole)  intent  is  to  vaunt  his  spiritual 
clack,  and  (as  I  may  so  speak),  to  pray  prizes."  The 
only  necessary  prayer  which  is  not  found  in  the  Anglican 
liturgy  is  this — that  God  would  vouchsafe  to  continue 
the  liturgy  itself  in  use,  honour,  and  veneration  in  this 
Church  for  ever.  So  concludes  the  second  of  South's 
sermons  "Against  Long  Extempore  Prayers,"  in  which 
it  pained  him — though  the  pain  seems  courageously 
and  cheerfully  borne — to  have  to  "  rake  into  the  dirt 
and  dunghill "  of  other  men's  devotions. 

Reason  and  conscience — these  are  the  true  lights 
which  lighten  every  man  that  cometh  into  the  world. 
Gifts  of  the  Spirit  there  are  ;  but  amongst  these  divine 
gifts  South  has  to  declare  that  he  cannot  find  "  the  gift 
of  canting  and  whining,  and  making  faces  ;  that  is,  of 
speaking  bad  sense  with  worse  looks ;  which  yet  those  men 
used  to  call  the  language  of  Canaau."  ^  The  generality 
of  mankind,  blind  to  the  lights  which  should  show  them 
the  plain  and  safe  way,  "  is  wholly  and  absolutely 
governed  by  words  or  names."  Two  or  three  popular, 
empty  words  in  the  mouth  of  a  rabble- driver  will  serve 
to  impel  the  whole  rout  whithersoever  the  driver  pleases. 
'*  Right  of  the  subject,"  "  liberty  of  conscience,"  "  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,"  will  do  well  enough,  although  no  mean- 
ing be  attached  to  any  one  of  these.  Thus,  the  religion 
of  the  Church  of  England  is  "  Popery "  (and  South 
himself  has  many  swashing  blows  to  deliver  against  the 
"  Papists ")  ;  those  who  have  schismatically  deserted  it 
are  "  true  Protestants  "  ;   the  subversion  of  the  Church 

^  Sermon  on  "  The  Christian  Pentecost." 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     329 

is  "  reformation  "  ;  the  execution  of  the  laws  in  behalf 
of  the  Church  is  "  persecution  "  ;  a  sneaking  spirit  of 
compromise  is  "  moderation."  What  does  one  in  five 
thousand  of  the  exclaimers  know  of  the  word  "  Popery," 
except  that  it  is  made  up  of  six  letters,  that  it  has  rung 
in  their  ears  since  infancy,  and  sounds  big  in  the  mouths 
of  carmen,  broom-men,  scavengers,  and  watermen  on 
a  fifth  of  November  ?  Yet  with  such  words  as  these, 
"  well  tuned  and  humoured,"  the  expert  demagogue  may 
whistle  his  herd  backwards  and  forwards,  upwards  and 
downwards  till  he  is  weary,  and  when  weary,  adds  South, 
with  the  malice  of  shrewd  good  sense,  the  rabble-driver 
may  rest  himself  "  by  getting  up  upon  their  backs."  ^ 

It  would  be  unjust  to  South  to  suppose  that  the 
driving  logic  and  bold  invective  of  his  sermons  are 
directed  only  against  religious  enthusiasts  and  hypocrites 
who  assumed  the  garb  of  religion.  On  occasions  the 
Court  preacher  could  boldly  attack  the  shameless  im- 
morality of  the  Restoration.  Among  the  terms  popularly 
abused  in  that  day  were  ''  ill  nature  "  and  "good  nature." 
Who  is  an  ill-natured  man  ?  Not  one  who  is  false 
or  cruel,  revengeful  or  ungrateful,  but  rather  one  who 
is  unwilling  to  spend  his  time,  his  health,  and  his  estate 
upon  a  crew  of  idle,  spunging  sots,  and  so  play  the 
prodigal  among  a  herd  of  swine.  Who  is  a  good-natured 
man  ?  If  the  word  be  used  by  his  superiors,  he  is 
doubtless  some  slavish,  glavering,  flattering  parasite, 
whose  business  is  to  fetch  and  carry ;  if  by  equals,  he 
is  either  some  soft-headed  piece  of  simplicity,  who  suffers 

1  Four  Sermons  :   "Of  the  Fatal  Imposture  and  Force  of  Words,"  and 
"  Of  the  Fatal  Influence  of  Words  and  Names  Falsely  Applied." 


330      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

himself  to  be  led  by  the  nose,  or  a  painful,  able,  and 
laborious  soaker,  whose  good  nature  is  born  of  the  pot 
and  the  pipe,  a  good  nature  which  he  takes  to  bed  over- 
night in  an  abundant  quantity,  but  which,  the  chance 
is,  he  sleeps  away  before  the  morning. 

South  saw  around  him  a  practical  atheism  and  a 
theoretical  scepticism  and  cavilling  at  religion,  and  he 
found  in  the  former  the  cause  of  the  latter  ;  these  "  sons 
of  Epicurus,"  moreover,  would  pass  for  the  only  wits  of 
the  age.^  Language  almost  fails  him  to  describe  the 
rage  and  rampancy  of  vice ;  it  is  ''  an  ocean,  which  now 
swells,  and  roars,  and  lifts  up  itself  above  all  banks  and 
bounds  of  human  laws " ;  it  is  a  monster  that  walks 
abroad  with  a  bare  face  and  a  brazen  forehead,  looking 
down  with  scorn  upon  virtue  as  a  contemptible  and  a 
mean  thing  :  "  we  have  sinned  apace,  and  at  a  higher 
strain  of  villainy  than  the  fops  our  ancestors  (as  some 
are  pleased  to  call  them)  could  ever  arrive  to."  Old 
age  encourages  greenness  of  years  in  wickedness ;  it  is 
evil-doing  which  is  the  best  means  of  preferment  to  the 
favour  of  the  great,  and  doubtless  men  are  well  pleased 
"  to  serve  their  interest  and  their  sensuality  together."  * 
Women,  whose  proper  ornament  should  be  bashfulness 
and  modesty,  now  brave  it  in  theatres  and  taverns, 
"  where  virtue  and  modesty  are  drunk  down,  and 
honour  left  behind  to  pay  the  reckoning.  .  .  .  This, 
I  say,  is  the  guise  of  our  age,  our  free-thinking  and  free- 
practising  age,  in   which  people  generally  are  ashamed 

^  Sermon  on  *'  Why  Christ's  doctrine  was  rejected  by  the  Jews." 
2  Sermon   "Of  the  heinous  guilt  of  taking  pleasure  in  other  men's 
sins." 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     331 

of  nothing  but  to  be  virtuous,  and  to  be  thought  old."  ^ 
And  while  vice  kept  his  house  like  a  strong  man  armed, 
South  did  not  perceive  that  the  stronger  than  he,  who 
shall  come  upon  him  and  overcome  him,  must  be  another 
than  reason  and  good  sense. 

In  1670  the  Rev.  John  Eachard,  who  a  few  years 
later  Succeeded  Lightfoot  as  master  of  Catharine  Hall, 
Cambridge,  published  his  admirably  witty  letter  to 
L'Estrange  on  "  The  Grounds  and  Occasions  of  the 
Contempt  of  the  Clergy  and  Religion."  It  may  be 
that  we  are  not  to  accept  all  its  statements  as  literally 
exact ;  that  something  must  be  allowed  for  the  writer's 
vein  of  humorous  exaggeration.  The  value  of  Each- 
ard's  book  as  a  plea  for  common  sense,  characteristic  of 
the  time,  cannot  be  questioned.  He  deplores  the  ignor- 
ance of  some  of  the  clergy  as  a  cause  of  the  contempt, 
not  altogether  unjust,  in  which  they  were  held  ;  un- 
doubtedly there  were  ''  Caroline  divines "  less  learned 
and  less  skilled  in  dialectic  than  those  whom  we 
remember  under  that  name.  How  could  it  be  other- 
wise, asks  Eachard,  when  lads  were  ordinarily  kept  to 
sixteen  or  seventeen  years  of  age  "  in  pure  slavery  to  a 
few  Greek  and  Latin  words  ? "  Why  might  they  not 
be  permitted  to  read  some  innocent  English  authors,  to 
write  some  English  themes,  and  so  learn  to  apprehend 
common  sense  and  to  judge  what  is  true  ?  But,  no  :  it 
seems  more  important  to  their  wise  instructors  that  they 
should  be  informed  how  Phaeton  broke  his  neck,  or  how 
many   nuts    and   apples    Tityrus   had    for    his    supper. 

^Sermon    on    "Shamelessness    in    sin    the    certain    forerunner    of 
destruction. " 


332      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

Dieted,  as  the  schoolboy  is,  with  rules  and  exceptions, 
he  somehow  comes  to  regard  nine-pins  and  span-counter 
as  much  more  heavenly  employments  than  learning ; 
and  indeed  in  Eachard's  own  opinion  the  boy  who 
catches  frogs  or  hunts  butterflies,  though  he  may  not 
acquire  a  great  reverence  for  antiquity,  is  a  happier 
boy  than  he  who  is  bound  to  get  before  breakfast  "  two 
or  three  hundred  rumblers  out  of  Homer"  in  com- 
mendation of  Achilles'  toes  or  the  Grecian's  boots. 
The  student  may  at  last  acquire  the  fine  art  of  rope- 
dancing  upon  classical  phrases,  thinning  his  judgment 
by  academic  wit ;  but  academic  wit  when  turned  from 
Latin  into  English,  is  a  dismally  shrimped  thing.  For 
the  most  part  an  ordinary  cheesemonger  or  plum-seller 
will  write  much  better  sense  than  these  young  philo- 
sophers whose  main  business  is  to  hunt  injudiciously  for 
curious  words. 

When  the  parson  mounts  his  pulpit,  too  often  he 
conceives  his  business  as  that  of  fastening  on  some  text 
of  Scripture,  and  tearing  and  tumbling  it  for  the  space 
of  an  hour.  If  he  is  plain  and  practical,  he  may  pass  for 
an  honest,  well-meaning  man,  but  he  is  evidently  no 
scholar.  He  therefore  finds  it  more  to  his  credit  when 
addressing  farmers  and  shepherds,  to  besprinkle  his  ser- 
mon with  Greek  and  Latin,  or  to  swagger  over  his  poor 
parishioners  with  the  original  Hebrew,  though  nothing 
in  the  church,  or  near  it  by  a  mile,  unless  it  be  God 
Almighty,  can  understand  his  learning.  Perhaps  the 
sound  of  it  may  flatter  some  patron  or  all-understanding 
justice  of  the  peace,  who  reposes  in  the  great  pew.  And 
yet  one  might  suppose  that  simple  words  and   useful 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     333 

instruction  were  as  fit  for  an  esquire,  or  for  one  who 
holds  the  King's  commission,  as  for  him  that  holds  the 
plough  or  mends  hedges. 

Eachard  makes  merry  over  the  strained  metaphors, 
childish  similitudes,  and  ill-applied  tales  of  the 
preachers.  Our  Saviour  spoke  in  parables,  but  He  was 
pleased  to  go  no  farther  than  the  field,  the  seashore, 
the  garden,  and  the  vineyard.  As  for  our  metaphor- 
mongers  and  similitude-men,  there  is  little  on  this  side 
the  moon  that  will  content  them.  But  it  is  in  the 
division  of  the  text  that  the  preacher  finds  the  happiest 
opportunity  for  a  display  of  his  genius.  If  the  words 
do  not  naturally  fall  asunder  of  themselves,  what  notable 
hacking  and  hewing  takes  place,  what  an  exhibition  of 
slivers  and  shivers.  ''  Weep  not  for  me,  but  weep  for 
yourselves " — an  excellent  text  of  eight  words,  and 
obviously  consisting  of  eight  parts  :  (1)  Weep  not  !  (2) 
But  weep  !  (3)  Weep  not,  but  w^eep  ! — and  the  rest  in 
due  order  as  may  be  easily  distinguished ;  that  is  to 
say,  adds  Eachard,  "  North,  north-and-by-east,  north- 
north-east,  north-east-and-by-north,"  with  all  the  other 
variations  of  the  same  quarter  of  the  compass.  The 
censures  of  the  critic  are  not  specially  directed  against 
preachers  of  any  one  party  in  the  Church ;  some  of 
them  indeed  apply  to  the  highest  pulpit  eloquence  of 
the  elder  generation,  to  such  sermons  as  those  of  Donne, 
even  to  such  sermons  as  those  of  Jeremy  Taylor.  South 
himself  was  not  indisposed  to  deliver  now  and  again  a 
blow  at  the  style  of  florid  metaphor  in  which  Taylor 
indulged  at  the  expense,  as  the  younger  orator  held,  of 
plain  and  square  sense.      "  •'  I  speak  the  words  of  sober- 


334      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

ness/  says  St  Paul,  '  aod  I  preach  the  Gospel,  not  with 
enticing  words  of  man's  wisdom.'  This  was  the  way  of 
the  apostles,"  South  comments,  ''  discoursing  of  things 
sacred.  Nothing  here  of  the  fringes  of  the  North  Star ; 
nothing  of  '  nature's  becoming  unnatural '  ;  nothing  of 
'  the  down  of  angels'  wings,  or  the  beautiful  locks  of  the 
cherubim';  no  starched  similitudes,  introduced  with  a 
*  thus  have  I  seen  a  cloud  rolling  in  its  airy  mansion.' 
No  ;  these  were  sublimities  above  the  rise  of  the  apostolic 
spirit." 
;  The  representative  preacher  of  the  new  school  was 
Tillotson.  He  died  in  1694,  but  his  influence  remained 
as  a  conciliating  power  during  the  first  half  of  the  ensuing 
century.  He  was  the  friend  of  Locke  and  of  Barrow  ; 
a  member  of  the  Royal  Society  ;  a  correspondent  of  the 
astronomer  Halley.  "  More  than  any  one,"  said  Bishop 
Burnet,  "  he  brought  the  city  to  love  our  worship  " ;  he 
was  named  by  Voltaire  the  wisest  and  the  most  eloquent 
of  English  preachers;  D'Albiac  and  again  Barbeyrac  trans- 
lated his  sermons  into  French  ;  Le  Clerc  celebrated  their 
merits  in  the  "  Bibliotheque  Choisie";  Dryden  declared 
that  he  had  formed  his  prose  style  by  a  study  of  Tillot- 
son ;  ''  he  was  the  best  man  I  ever  knew,"  said  King 
William,  "  and  the  best  friend  I  ever  had "  ;  Addison 
describes  him  as  ''  the  most  eminent  and  useful  author 
of  the  age  we  live  in."  Tillotson's  influence  is  not  to 
be  explained  by  any  extraordinary  power  of  individual 
genius,  unless  it  be  genius  to  have  caught  the  better 
spirit  of  the  time  and  to  have  given  it  expression.  It 
was  his  part  to  exhibit  the  duties  of  religion  as  a  reason- 
able service,  to  set  forth  the  harmony  of  natural  and 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     335 

revealed  religion,  to  show  that  piety  is  a  branch  of  wise 
living,  making,  as  it  does,  for  happiness  and  peace  both 
in  this  life  and  the  life  that  is  to  come,  to  exemplify  in 
his  own  person  the  temper  of  moderation  and  good  sense. 
Tillotson,  like  his  friend  Locke,  had  come  from  a 
Puritan  household.  The  writings  of  Chillingworth 
widened  the  basis  of  his  theology,  and  prepared  his 
mind  to  receive  influences  from  the  eminent  group  of 
Cambridge  thinkers — Cudworth,  Whichcote,  John  Smith, 
and  others — who  found  in  revealed  truth  rather  the 
illumination  of  the  natural  reason  than  its  suspension 
at  the  voice  of  authority.  In  later  years  he  incurred 
the  reproach  of  being  one  of  the  "  Latitude-men,"  or 
something  worse.  His  charitable  bearing  towards  dis- 
senters condemned  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  altitudinarians. 
Tillotson,  during  the  reigns  of  the  later  Stuarts,  appre- 
hended the  revival  of  Roman  Catholicism  in  England, 
and  saw  in  the  atheistical  humour  and  the  profaneness 
and  immorality  of  the  time  unacknowledged  allies  of 
superstition.  "  Nothing,"  he  writes,  '*  is  more  natural 
than  for  extremes  in  religion  to  beget  one  another,  like 
the  vibrations  of  the  pendulum,  which  the  more  violently 
you  swing  it  one  way,  the  farther  it  Avill  return  the  other." 
It  was  his  desire  that  all  sober-minded  Christians  should 
"jointly  endeavour  to  retrieve  the  ancient  virtue  of  the 
nation,  and  to  bring  into  fashion  again  that  solid  and 
substantial,  that  plain  and  unaffected  piety  (free  from 
the  extremes  both  of  superstition  and  enthusiasm)  which 
flourished  in  the  age  of  our  immediate  forefathers : 
which  did  not  consist  in  idle  talk,  but  in  real  effects,  in 
a  sincere  love  of  God   and   of  our  neighbour,  in  a  pious 


33^      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

devotion  and  reverence  towards  the  Divine  Majesty,  and 
in  the  virtuous  actions  of  a  good  life."  The  popularity 
of  Tillotson's  writings  suffered  an  eclipse  when  religious 
enthusiasm  revived  in  the  second  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  For  Whitefield,  though  he  afterwards  regretted 
his  unjust  words,  Tillotson  was  ''  that  traitor  who  sold 
his  Lord."  But  if  Whitefield  had  lived  in  the  days  of 
the  good  Archbishop  his  preaching  would  have  been  to 
little  purpose.  C  Tillotson  did  for  his  own  time  the  work 
that  was  most  needful  in  the  way  that  was  most  suitable. 
/After  the  orgies  of  the  saints  and  the  orgies  of  the 
sinners  he  made  sanity  acceptable  to  a  whole  generation. 
There  is  indeed  a  beautiful  kind  of  enthusiasm  in  the 
long  devotion  of  a  life  to^  things  that  are  pure  and 
peaceable  and  of  good  report. 

The  temper  of  the  lay  mind  as  to  ecclesiastical  ques- 
tions a  few  years  after  the  Archbishop's  death  is  happily 
indicated  in  one  of  the  papers  contributed  by  Addison 
to  ''  The  Tatler."  In  an  earlier  number  it  had  been 
announced  that  Mr  Bickerstatf  was  the  possessor  of  a 
political  barometer  or  state  weather-glass,  which,  by  the 
rising  or  falling  of  a  certain  magical  liquor,  presaged  all 
changes  and  revolutions  in  government.  Addison  enlarges 
the  jest  by  his  invention  of  an  ecclesiastical  thermometer, 
adapted  to  the  constitution  of  the  Church,  as  divided 
into  "high"  and  "  low."  The  fluid  used  consists  of  a 
fiery  spirit  very  apt  to  ferment,  combined  with  a  sort  of 
rock-water,  colder  than  ice  and  clearer  than  crystal.  At 
precisely  the  middle  point  of  the  glass,  where  the  fluid 
reaches  the  mean  position,  the  marking  of  the  thermo- 
meter indicates  the  Church,  which  stands  directlv  between 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     337 

Zeal  on  the  upper  register  and  Moderation  on  the  lower. 
Passing    upward    beyond    Zeal,    we    find    the   markings 
Wrath,   Persecution,   and   Ignorance  ;  descending  below 
Moderation  we  come  upon  Lukewarmness,  Infidelity,  and 
again   Ignorance.      In  a  via  media  between  Zeal  and 
Moderation  the  Church   best  flourishes,  and   it  is  there 
that  every  good   Englishman,   who  is   a  friend   to   the 
constitution,  wishes  her  to  be.     However,  when  the  fluid 
rises  to  Zeal  it  is  not  amiss  ;  when  it  sinks  to  Moderation 
it  is  still  in  a  most  admirable  temper.      "  The  worst  of 
it  is,"  says  Addison,  "  that  when  once  it  begins  to  rise, 
it  has  an  inclination  to  ascend,  insomuch  that  it  is  apt 
to  climb  from  Zeal  to  Wrath,  and  from  Wrath  to   Per- 
secution, which  always  ends  in  Ignorance,  and  very  often 
proceeds  from   it.      In  the   same   manner  it  frequently 
takes  its  progress  through  the  lower  half  of  the  glass  ; 
and,  when  it  has  a  tendency  to  fall,  will  gradually  descend 
from  Moderation  to  Lukewarmness,  and  from  Lukewarm- 
ness to  Infidelity,  which  very  often  terminates  in  Ignor- 
ance,   and    always    proceeds    from    it."      Excellent  and 
devout  spirit  as  Addison  was,  he  escaped  the  dangers  of 
zeal,  and  to  him  party-spirit  appeared  to  be  a  deplorable 
form  of  madness.      He  could  not  understand  why  multi- 
tudes of  honest  gentlemen,  who  entirely  agree  in   their 
lives,  should   take   it   in   their  heads  to   differ  in   their 
religion.      We    have   travelled    far   from   the   inflexible 
temper  of  the  days  of  Laud  and  his  Puritan  antagonists. 
Tillotson  had  been  doing  for  religion  the  work  needful 
in  his   own   time  ;  yet  we   cannot  describe  it  as  other 
than  provisional.      The  point  attained   was  a  point  of 
recovery,  a  halting-place,  an  indispensable  resting-place 

Y 


33^      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

for  a  season.  In  one  sermon  Tillotson  tells  a  story  of  a 
woman  who  went  about  with  a  pitcher  in  one  hand,  and 
a  pan  of  coals  in  the  other,  and  being  asked  what  she 
meant  to  do  with  them,  she  answered,  "  with  the  one 
to  burn  heaven,  and  with  the  other  to  quench  hell,  that 
men  might  love  God  and  virtue  for  their  own  sakes 
without  hope  of  reward  or  fear  of  punishment."  This 
woman,  he  says,  may  have  been  devout,  but  he  does 
not  think  that  she  was  overwise.^ 

With  Tillotson,  whose  piety  was  pure  and  peaceably 
ardent,  the  motive  to  religion  of  self-interest  was  taken 
/  up  among  higher  motives  and  was  ennobled  ;  but  when 
we  read  the  appeals  of  later  preachers  to  all  that  is  self- 
regarding  in  human  nature,  and  note  their  deadness  to 
all  that  is  loftiest  in  man — his  passion  for  righteousness, 
his  enthusiasm  of  self-surrender — we  may  come  to  regard 
the  poor  woman  of  the  story  as  the  genius  of  heroic 
piety  gone  distracted  in  an  age  of  ignoble  good-sense. 
The  mid  years  and  the  second  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century  with  its  preachings  of  Whitefield,  its  growth  of 
Methodism,  its  Evangelical  revival,  its  new  philanthropy, 
are  the  justification  by  Wisdom  of  her  distracted  child. 
The  discovery  came  to  religion  and  to  literature  that 
';  neither  of  these  is  a  mere  affair  of  the  understanding ; 
in  the  hidden  depths  of  passion  and  imagination  lie 
springs  which  murmur  at  the  right  moment  to  the  rod  of 
the  true  diviner,  and  which,  when  discovered,  bring  life 

^  I  borrow  the  sentences  in  which  the  Rev.  John  Hunt  cites  the  story 
("Religious  Thought  in  England,"  vol.  ii.  p.  103).  His  reference  to 
Barker's  edition  (ix.  49)  does  not  guide  me  to  the  sermon  in  my  copy 
of  Birch's  edition.  I  have  some  recollection  of  having  read  the  story 
elsewhere — possibly  in  Joinville. 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     339 

and  refreshment  to  the  dry  places.  The  general  con- 
clusion to  be  derived  from  the  history  of  religion  in 
the  eighteenth  century  I  shall  not  venture  to  state  in 
words  of  my  own.  It  has  been  stated  by  a  writer,  who 
knew  the  eighteenth  century  well,  and  who  can  hardly 
be  charged  with  the  errors  of  enthusiasm — the  late 
Mark  Pattison  :  ''To  abstain  from  vice,  to  cultivate 
virtue,  to  fill  our  station  in  life  with  propriety,  to  bear 
the  ills  of  life  with  resignation,  and  to  use  its  pleasures 
moderately — these  things  are  indeed  not  little  ;  perhaps 
no  one  can  name  in  his  circle  of  friends  a  man  whom 
he  thinks  equal  to  their  demands.  Yet  the  experience 
of  the  last  age  has  shown  us  unmistakably  that  where 
this  is  our  best  ideal  of  life,  whether,  with  the  Deist, 
we  establish  the  obligation  of  morality  on  '  independent' 
grounds,  or,  with  the  orthodox,  add  the  religious  sanction 
— in  Mr  Mill's  rather  startling  mode  of  putting  it, 
'  Because  God  is  stronger  than  we,  and  able  to  damn  us 
if  we  don't ' — it  argues  a  sleek  and  sordid  epicurism,  in 
which  religion  and  a  good  conscience  have  their  place 
among  the  means  by  which  life  is  to  be  made  comfort- 
able." 

Fielding,  although  his  standard  of  masculine  morals, 
if  only  *'  good  nature,"  that  is,  a  benevolent  heart,  be 
present,  is  not  very  exacting,  was  a  sincere  friend  of 
religion  as  it  was  conceived  in  the  first  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  He  ridicules  Methodism,  to  which 
sect  Mr  Blifil  attaches  himself,  after  his  villainies  have 
been  discovered,  adding  the  estate  of  a  very  rich  and 
devout  widow  to  the  two  hundred  a  year  settled  upon 
him  by  his  good  uncle.      But  Fielding  with  even  greater 


340      Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century 

zest  ridicules  the  hypocrisy  of  the  free-thinker  in  the 
person  of  his  philosopher  Square.      The  clergy  of  the 
Church  of  England  are  treated  by  that  great  observer  of 
English  social  life  on  the  whole  with  consideration  and 
respect,  and  it  is  a  happiness  to  learn  from   Fielding 
how  much  of  true  piety  and  goodness  was  to  be  found 
among    the    representatives   of   the    elder   school,   who 
dreaded    or   suspected    the    new    outbreak    of  religious 
enthusiasm.      Dr  Harrison,  the  kind   friend  and  father 
of  Amelia  and  her  children,  was  serving  England  in  his 
own  way  less  extensively  but  not  less  truly  than  White- 
field    or    Wesley ;    and,    no    doubt,    there    were    many 
Dr    Harrisons.       Yet    we    may    doubt    whether    many 
conversions  were  effected  in   the   manner  in   which  Mr 
William   Booth  is  so  pleasingly  converted   with   a  view 
to    making   Amelia's    felicity   complete,   and  qualifying 
him    for    the    part   of    an    honest    country    gentleman. 
Mr  Booth  was  never  a  rash  disbeliever,  but  he  had  his 
doubts    respecting    religion,   of  which    the    chief   arose 
from   his  notion  that,   as  men    act   entirely   from  their 
passions,    their     actions    can    have    neither    merit    nor 
demerit.      In  the  bailiff's  house  he  employed  his  time 
with   great   profit   in   reading  Dr  Barrow's  sermons  in 
proof   of    the   Christian   religion,   and   before    long  not 
a  doubt  remained  unsatisfied — "  if  ever  an  angel  might 
be  thought  to  guide  the  pen  of  a  writer,  surely  the  pen 
of  that  great   and   good   man    had   such   an   assistant.'' 
Dr   Harrison  does  not  question  Booth's  assertion  that 
men  act  entirely  from  their  passions  ;  but  since  that  is 
so,  surely  the  religion  which  applies  immediately  to  the 
strongest    of  these    passions,  hope  and    fear,  must    be 


Transition  to  the  Eighteenth  Century     341 

true ;  a  religion,  writes  Fielding,  that  chooses  *'  rather 
to  rely  on  its  rewards  and  punishments  than  on  that 
native  beauty  of  virtue  which  some  of  the  ancient 
philosophers  thought  proper  to  recommend  to  their 
disciples."  The  utilitarian  argument  for  Christianity 
was   never  more   nakedly   stated. 

To  make  life  comfortable  was  assuredly  not  the  chief 
aim  of  the  Evangelical  Revival,  nor  has  it  been  the 
chief  aim  of  the  Oxford  movement.  The  one  attempted 
to  bring  earth  somewhat  nearer  to  heaven ;  the  other, 
through  sacrament  and  symbol,  thought  to  bring  heaven 
somewhat  nearer  to  earth.  Each  was  opposed  to  the 
characteristic  spirit  of  the  earlier  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  one  more  in  the  temper  of  individualism, 
the  other  with  a  stricter  sense  of  the  importance  of 
corporate  religious  life. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


AUG    3  1971  4  9 


fED 


REC'D  to 


^^50/^. 


JUL  14  \m 


Alt59 


.or 


0" 

M: 

^  PM  7  fr-' 

^. 


r 


'P^J-D  fE87g7^- 


«g;  C^      b^  S-76 


^ 


,^0Discq^rjmJ-9A 


-•   9> 


v^ 


MC  2  ]   ]98, 


LD21A-50m-2,'71 
(P2001S10 )  476 — A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


-H^AIH^m^^^ 


I.e.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CD3Slh331D 


m 


i 


X^' 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


4     . 


•»ji» 


■inir  .'.-ir,K':'\- 


::i;i;i:rf  r!': : 

:'i'fl^-'}{i^^  ■.... 

-:    .       '   I    '  :  i 

:.;  .  »  *  -:  .  § 


i  ?=M<r 


n^rtir. 


:*'    ■  '  *:'  '    '1.'   r  i"I  r'   **.*;;-;■'" 


:j.{  J •-=•;*•»■-»■▼? ft: 


.j.'.:»:»;i>'»: 


••-:J;:!l: 


:  :  :\  iJ-r-'-::;::: 


'isi^^jiiiyiift  *'"'''**' 


